


The Change

by Laur



Series: The Wolf [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Werewolf John, Werewolves, Whump, mature themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-09 13:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17407766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: Sherlock and John struggle to accept the Wolf as they begin their new relationship.A sequel to The Bite.





	1. Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the amazing [cover art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17633321) for this fic made by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)!

Their first time alone they’re both nervous wrecks.

They’ve been building up to this for a week now, the date looming in the back of their minds. The last two days have been difficult, with John growing cagey and standoffish and Sherlock becoming uncertain and snappish. The long lead up hasn’t made them feel any more prepared.

“Tighter,” John orders, flexing against the chains.

“If I make them any tighter you’ll lose blood circulation,” Sherlock argues, fingers trembling where they brush cold metal and John’s feverish skin.

John glares at him, eyes red from lack of sleep. “You’re sure I won’t break out?”

Sherlock runs his eyes over everything again, taking in the thick metal cuffs around John’s ankles, chaining him to the concrete floor; matching manacles around his wrists, their ends embedded into the wall; the gleaming chains hugging his bare, vulnerable torso. John stands nude and shivering, metal clinking softly with his movements, and Sherlock can’t take his hands off of him. The sight of him, flushed and bare, wrapped in cruel metal, is equal parts delicious and revolting. If Sherlock keeps stroking him soothingly, and ignores the way John shivers and his own hands shake, he can almost pretend this is something they both want.

With a long blink, Sherlock steps back, forcefully expelling his self-indulgent thoughts. This is no lovers’ game and Sherlock’s never been one to shy from the truth.

“I would be greatly impressed and surprised if you could slip out of these,” he promises, trying to reassure both John and his own quivering stomach.

John grunts and struggles, testing the restraints himself. “How long?”

Sherlock glances at his mobile. “An hour.”

John grunts again, this time in annoyance. “You have the gun? Your knife?”

Sherlock nods. John’s gun is in his pocket and the silver knife in a sheath at his ankle.

“Kiss me?”

Sherlock complies gratefully, bowing his head and taking John’s face in his hands. The scent of him is electrifying, the taste of him more so, the flavour of the wolf sending thrills of fright down his spine. Stepping closer, the chains leave cold imprints on Sherlock’s chest, making him shiver and deepen the kiss. He can feel John’s breath picking up and leans even closer, rejoicing in John’s receptiveness. They’ve barely touched in two days.

With a hiss, John turns his head sharply and Sherlock leans back, heart dropping. Jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut, a growl rumbles in John’s chest and Sherlock retreats, apologies on his lips.

It’s as if he’s partners with two separate individuals: John – human John – who is stubborn and brave and everything Sherlock loves; and the wolf, the monster who would sink its teeth into Sherlock’s throat without hesitation.

“Sorry,” John grinds out. When he opens his eyes, red shines through. “The wolf…”

“I understand.”

John must see something of the rejection Sherlock is trying to suppress, because he shakes his head. “No, you don’t,” he says fiercely, his warm fingers squeezing Sherlock’s wrist. “I want you, of course I do.”

“But the wolf doesn’t,” Sherlock finishes.

John frowns and looks down at the cuff. He releases his grip. “The wolf doesn’t want anything but death.”

There’s not much to do other than to wait. Giving him space, Sherlock bolts the cell door between them and sits in the settee they’d managed to drag into the cellar last week. Normally Sherlock is the one prone to agitated pacing, but with the full moon imminent, John stalks like a jungle cat, muscles coiled tight, step graceful despite the metal weighing him down. Sherlock lets the rhythm of John’s bare feet against the floor lull him into an outward appearance of calm, periodically informing John of the time before he can ask. Occasionally, John will jerk his head and his eyes will flash red, his entire body shuddering against the chains. Sherlock asks how he’s feeling every ten minutes until John stops responding with words.

At last, John collapses to the floor.

Sherlock is up in an instant, pressing against the bars between them. “John.”

He gets a miserable groan in response and his stomach drops. Fumbling with his mobile, he brings up the timer. He told John he wanted to see how long the transformation process is, whether it would differ from the first time, but he knows that was an excuse, and a flimsy one at that. He’s here because he cannot fathom being away from John’s side while John is in pain. How could he possibly let John go through this alone? Yet at the first crack of bone and the first scream of agony, he wishes he could be anywhere else. How is he meant to witness this? How can he be expected to survive watching his partner go through such torture?

For the next eternity, Sherlock’s entire being is consumed by John’s pain. The chains shift against skin that stretches and bursts with thick fur. The manacles strain against bones that lengthen and muscle that swells obscenely. John curls into himself, pressing his forehead to the floor as a snout protrudes from his face, his groans sliding into a canine whine as his vocal cords reshape themselves.

When the transformation is complete, the werewolf staggers to its feet, shuddering as it settles into its body. Malicious red eyes scan slowly, taking in the cell…the chains…Sherlock.

For all of humans’ evolutionary advantages, Sherlock has never felt more like prey, frozen under the glow of those unfeeling eyes. The timer is still running in his hand, forgotten, and his heart has stopped in his chest. It feels like a century, yet can’t have been more than seconds or surely he’d be dead of fright.

The creature growls, a low menacing sound as it pulls against the chains holding it, and Sherlock’s heart restarts, throwing itself painfully against his sternum. After seeing this in Baskerville, Sherlock thought he would be better prepared this time. He was wrong.

Without an observation window between them, the creature is free to track Sherlock with its eyes. Without speakers to buffer the sound, its deep growls penetrate Sherlock’s very soul. In that moment, with only metal bars between them, Sherlock is incredibly grateful for the gun in his pocket and the silver knife at his ankle.

The realization rips through him sickeningly. He wants to kill the nightmare in front of him. His fingertips actually twitch towards the gun.

The monster watches him, saliva dripping from its maw, snarling and twisting insistently against the chains, hungry for human flesh.

His mobile slips from his numb fingers. They both jerk as it clatters to the floor. The monster throws back its head and Sherlock flees the cellar, a splitting howl chasing after him.

He slams the door closed between them at the top of the stairs, sagging to the floor. He can hardly breathe, he struggles against the urge to vomit. For the first time in nearly twenty years, Sherlock has a panic attack.

With light bursts in front of his eyes and his heart pounding in his ears, he thinks, _I would kill him_. He would die for John, but he would kill the wolf.

He spends the night sitting on the floor, listening to the wolf’s howls.

 

 

He stumbles to the bed at dawn, suffering through the tingling of blood returning to his legs and the sounds of the monster being reluctantly forced under its human guise. His feet are still stinging when John calls out.

“Sherlock?”

He grabs a water bottle and shuffles down the stairs, plastering on a smile as John comes into view. The smile slips slightly when he notices the way John is shivering, the bruises that cover his body, the way he sways on his feet. “Welcome back,” he says, unlocking the cell.

“I haven’t felt like this since uni,” John croaks, taking the water bottle eagerly and draining it as Sherlock sets to work freeing him of the chains. They held dutifully, despite the wolf’s tireless efforts, leaving marks on John’s skin instead.

“Like what?” Sherlock kneels to unlock the manacles around John’s ankles, frowning at the purple, swollen skin.

“Like it’s Sunday morning and I can’t remember if I had a bad night or a really good one, but I’m pretty sure I fell down some stairs at one point.”

Sherlock manages an amused hum and stands, then presses a kiss to John’s mangled shoulder, feeling the uneven skin with his lips. John stiffens and Sherlock pulls away quickly, searching John’s eyes for traces of the wolf.

“You alright?” John asks, stroking a hand down Sherlock’s arm. “You smell anxious.”

Bloody biochemistry and John’s oversensitive nose. Tucking the keys in his pocket, Sherlock catches John’s hand and holds it up to display his discoloured wrist. “We should use padded cuffs next time.”

John takes in the damage with a shrug. “I suppose. They’re already fading though.”

He’s right. Even as they’re standing there the bruises appear less severe than when Sherlock first saw him. It’s unsettling nonetheless – just because John heals quickly doesn’t mean he should have to suffer through unnecessary pain. Sherlock strokes a thumb over the plum-coloured skin, then takes the empty water bottle from John’s hand to throw in the rubbish bin and turns away. “Still.”

“Did you get any sleep – shit, you dropped your mobile?”

Bending to pick up his abandoned phone, Sherlock turns the abused device in his hands. “Obviously.”  There’s a crack on the screen, of course. At least it still turns on.

John grabs his pants and trousers from the settee, peering around Sherlock’s shoulder as he does so. “How’d that happen?”

“A moment of clumsiness – it happens to the best of us.” He tucks the mobile in his pocket and briskly invades John’s space, putting off any further questions. He makes certain to keep his movements fluid and his head bowed, cautious of the predator just under the surface. Batting away John’s hands, he takes over the job of doing up his partner’s belt and lays his hands on John’s warm waist. He watches John’s pupils bloom. “Let’s go home. You could do with a kip.”

John smiles up at him, gently squeezing Sherlock’s forearms. “So could you, I reckon. Pass me my jumper, would you? Unless you want me wandering the woods half starkers.”

“I wouldn’t object.” Sherlock grabs the jumper without looking and stuffs it over John’s head, smirking at the resulting squawk. “But any unsuspecting hikers might get the wrong idea.”

John’s head peaks through the neck hole and he winks. “Or the right one.”

 

 

The cottage is so deep in the trees that it is a bit of a trek to get back to where they left the loaner car, compliments of Mycroft. As they walk in the brisk morning air, shoulders bumping, John asks, “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“The…transformation. The change.”

If Sherlock weren’t feeling so off-kilter, he would smile. Clever John, who already knows what the transformation looks like thanks to Mycroft’s recording from Baskerville. He’s asking how Sherlock is feeling without actually saying the words. John’s never been particularly skilled at subterfuge, but Sherlock can appreciate the effort.

_Grotesque,_ he thinks. _Which, incidentally, is also how I feel_. “It’s unbelievable in every sense of the word,” he says, answering John’s words rather than his true question.

John’s lips pinch in disappointment, though he hums in agreement. “Locking me up in a cellar every full moon. I’d say it’s definitely on the top of our ‘Most Ridiculous Things We’ve Ever Done’ list.”

“Yes, this one beats chasing a cab on foot, definitely.”

John laughs and Sherlock locks all thoughts of the wolf in the dungeon of his mind palace. They’re fine, of course they are.

 

 

They’re both knackered by the time they get home. They take the time to scarf down a couple of Mrs. Hudson’s muffins while Sherlock convinces John to sleep in his bed.

“It misses you, you’ve been gone for two nights.”

“You know, it’s probably unhealthy to project your emotions onto your bed,” John grumbles, but acquiesces nonetheless. They strip, Sherlock tucking his silver knife in his pants drawer, and they tumble into bed. John smacks a wet kiss on Sherlock’s cheek and dodges his swatting hands. “Goodnight,” he mumbles against Sherlock’s nape. “Or good morning, I guess.”

 

 

They get two hours of sleep before they’re woken by a call from Greg. John is tempted to finish the job on Sherlock’s partially destroyed mobile. It’s a case, of course, and it takes them, drowsy and quickly showered, to the crime scene of a young woman’s body.

The damp alley they are in reeks of blood, rot, and waste, but John can still smell the traces of stress and fear lingering on her skin. He watches Sherlock inspect the body, then crouches to complete his own brief analysis. The body is lying in a pool of blood, a smattering of stab wounds in her abdomen.

“Cause of death’s fairly obvious,” he mutters, breathing shallowly. “She hit her head when she fell, likely knocked herself unconscious. Doubt she woke again before the blood loss took her.”

Sherlock nods and stands, holding a hand out to pull John up after him.

“Anything?” the DI asks, standing off to the side. The alley is cordoned off by police, but there’s a small crowd gawking on the street and Greg shuffles his feet, trying to block sight of the body with his own. They haven’t seen Greg in a while, and the man looks tired. John notices his wedding band is missing.

Sherlock sniffs and somehow makes the action of pulling off his gloves disdainful. John winces; Sherlock’s going to make Greg work for it.

“Some. Despite my considerable doubt in the abilities of the average London police officer, this case doesn’t strike me as worthy of my skills,” Sherlock drawls.

Greg grimaces and John rolls his eyes. Stepping away, he scans the alley and lets them play out their little drama.

“There’s no I.D. on the body,” Greg points out.

“Because the killer took her purse.”

“How do you know she had a purse?”

“Please. If she didn’t have a purse he would have checked her pockets, but she still has some cash in her coat pocket.”

“So, this was a robbery.”

“Hardly. She’s still wearing her jewelry.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Oh, honestly. He took her purse but left the jewelry, so what did he want? What’s missing from the body? You said it yourself – her I.D.”

A breeze trickles through the alley, carrying the scent of the woman’s blood with it. John stiffens. The body is to his left but that breeze came from… He turns his head, considering the small crowd of onlookers on the street.

“If he’d panicked, he wouldn’t have taken anything. If he were smarter, he would have stripped the body of valuables, maybe roughed up her face a bit. The killer knew this woman and wanted to make her more difficult to identify.”

There’s a man in the back of the crowd with hunched shoulders and a hat pulled low over his face.

“John?” Sherlock steps up behind him.

John’s ‘that was amazing’ is probably overdue, but at that moment, the man’s eyes meet his and widen.

The man bolts and John tears after him instinctually, barking “Move!” as he flies past Sally Donovan and the shocked onlookers. As they run through the streets, John’s vision tunnels until all he can see is his prey. He can hear Sherlock’s steps pounding behind him, but for once he’s the one fighting to keep up with John.

They skid into another narrow side street and the prey stumbles. An extra bolt of speed shoots through John’s muscles and the man whirls, his hand in his pocket.

John nearly laughs. His gun is still in Sherlock’s coat and this little weasel has a knife. It’s practically an invitation.

John springs and tackles his prey, listening to the satisfying _whoosh_ of the air being crushed out of the man’s lungs. They hit the ground hard and John feels a sharp slice of pain along his upper arm. His quarry twitches under him and he has the sudden urge to sink his teeth into the man’s neck, bite down, and tear.

Sherlock’s steps stumble to a halt behind them. “John,” he gasps.

Blinking hard, John shoves the growling wolf into the back of his head and the man into the ground, knocking the bloody knife from his hand. He reeks of the girl’s blood and his fingernails are stained rusty. He lets out a pained whimper.

“Easy, John,” Sherlock says lowly, and John forces himself to relax his grip on the man’s wrists.

“He killed her,” John growls.

“You’re right, but I still can’t recommend you break his arm. At least not with Lestrade on his way – late as usual!” he calls as Greg jogs up to meet them, gasping.

“Christ, John, you took off like a bat outta hell,” Greg pants, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

“Get ‘im offa me!” the killer whines.

John doesn’t move until the DI has clicked the handcuffs into place, then lets Sherlock ease him up and away. Reinforcements arrive and the suspect goes without protest, a sullen look on his scratched and bleeding face. Greg notes the bloody knife on the ground and John’s torn coat sleeve.

“You alright?” he asks, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves.

John nods, twists his arm to check the damage. The cut felt deep initially, but is already nearly closed. “Just a scratch, doesn’t even need stitches.”

Greg retrieves the knife from the ground. It’s covered in both dried and fresh blood and Greg is not unobservant, despite what Sherlock says. The amount of fresh blood is not insignificant, and Greg notices. “You sure?” he asks, taking a step closer.

John tenses, thinks quickly of how he can deter the man, when Sherlock moves in front of him, blocking his arm from Greg’s view.  

“Are we done here? You have your killer, now I’d like to take John back to the flat to patch him up.”

Greg ducks his head, makes a show of placing the bloody knife in an evidence bag. When he looks back up, the seriousness of his face is belied by the twitching of his lips. “So, it’s official now, you two?”

John freezes and looks to Sherlock, only to find his partner looking back at him, equally unsure. Sherlock, unsure?

“Sorry,” Greg cuts in. “None of my business, I suppose. Thanks for giving us a hand with this one.”

“Yes, why did you call us in?” Sherlock snaps, using bluster to compensate for his discomfort.

Greg shrugs, unruffled. “Seemed like an odd one, figured you wouldn’t mind giving us a hand.”

“You don’t need to make excuses, Greg,” John teases, trying to shake off the nerves. “We missed you, too.”

Greg gives an amused snort while Sherlock glances between the two of them with narrowed eyes.

“Lestrade!” Donovan calls.

“Better get this to forensics,” Greg says, waving the knife as he heads back the way they came. He gives a light thump to John’s back as he passes. “We’re due for drinks, eh, John? And get that arm checked.”

“I’ll text you,” John agrees and turns to Sherlock as Greg retreats. “You okay?”

Sherlock blinks back to the present and looks at him. With a frown he turns and heads for the main road. “Why didn’t you say yes?”

John strides after him. “Why didn’t you?”

They emerge onto the street and Sherlock hails a cab. “I asked first.”

Rolling his eyes, John waits until they’re seated and _en route_ before speaking. “You’re the one that has a professional relationship with Greg. I didn’t want to say anything that would make you uncomfortable.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes forward, frame stiff. “Ah, so Greg is my colleague and your friend, whom you are ashamed to tell about us. Sounds a bit cowardly.”

John sucks in a breath and looks away, taking a moment to beat down the sudden flare of anger at Sherlock’s acidic tone. The wolf rumbles in the back of his head, jaws snapping. John knows Sherlock. Sherlock lashes out when he’s uncertain or insecure. Even John can make this leap. When he turns back, Sherlock is watching him warily.

“I’m not ashamed,” John says quietly. “I’d be more than happy to tell Greg about us. In fact, I can text him right now.” He retrieves his mobile from his pocket. Sherlock leans over to watch as he types: _You were right, we have made it official. It’s still a bit new._

“You don’t actually state what ‘it’ is,” Sherlock complains.

“Don’t worry, he’ll understand,” John mutters and hits send.

Sherlock immediately pulls out his own battered mobile and begins texting, but he stays pressed against John’s side.

John’s mobile vibrates and he looks at Greg’s response: _Congrats mate. Hope he’s as good for you as you are for him._

And then: _Christ he’s texting me now too._

With a snort, John reaches over and snags Sherlock’s mobile out of his hands, quickly reading the texts as Sherlock squawks and swipes at him.

_John means that he and I have entered into a romantic and sexual relationship. SH_

_If you call us boyfriends I will never help you on another case again. SH_

Laughing, John lets Sherlock snatch his mobile back and grabs Sherlock’s hand instead, raising it so he can press a kiss to the knuckles.

 

 

They step into the flat and Sherlock removes his coat, listening as John moves into the kitchen to put on the kettle. They have a certain routine, the two of them, grown from over a year of living together, solving cases together. They’ll come home, John will make tea, they’ll eat leftover takeaway. They’ll separate and continue on with their day, John writing up notes and Sherlock organizing his mind palace, or they’ll sleep if it has been a particularly long case. These little habits, if somewhat dull and predictable, are comforting, and yet they also make it difficult to break out of the routine.

Well, Sherlock has never been one to shy away from doing the unexpected.

John is leaning against the countertop and Sherlock steps up behind him, feeling the heat of him soak into his skin. John doesn’t jump in surprise, only presses back against him, and Sherlock relaxes, lets his cheek rest against the top of John’s head, breathing in his scent. John smells like himself, but _more_ , somehow; a sharp, primal undercurrent fills Sherlock’s lungs and lights up his brainstem. He finds himself gripping John’s hips.

“We’ll need to get you a new coat,” he says, watching and feeling John’s movements as he prepares their tea. 

John hums in agreement. “Too bad, I like that one.”

“I do, too.” Sherlock slips his hands up, under John’s jumper, his undershirt the only barrier to John’s skin. “This jumper, however, I have no remorse for.” He keeps expecting John to abandon the tea and turn in his arms, lift his head for a kiss. John just stirs sugar into Sherlock’s tea. When that’s done, he simply stands, looking at the two steaming beverages. Sherlock steps back, giving him space. “You’re upset, why are you upset?”

Silently, John hands him his mug and retreats to the sitting room with his own, taking a seat in his chair. Sherlock follows and sits across from him, heart pounding. Is he having regrets already? He wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t ashamed, but perhaps he is embarrassed nonetheless?

“What is it, John?” he bites out, not exactly the encouraging tone he was going for.

“Did you really think I was about to break the suspect’s arm?”

Sherlock blinks for a too-long moment. “I…thought it was a possibility, yes.” Which is clearly not the answer John was hoping for. “Why do you feel guilty?” Sherlock watches him avoid eye contact and take a sip of tea.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters.

“Done what? Tackle a killer?”

“I enjoyed it,” John says, even more quietly.

A chill runs down Sherlock’s spine. He burrows deeper into his chair. “Well, of course. We’ve always enjoyed the thrill of the chase, John.”

He nods, but his expression hasn’t changed and Sherlock sips his own tea, trying to decipher John’s thoughts. For once, Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t understand why John should feel guilty over harming a fleeing suspect but not for killing Jefferson Hope.

John stands abruptly. “I’d better go get some shopping done,” he announces, grabbing his shredded coat and pulling it on over his torn and bloody jumper. “We’ve got nothing in.”

“Let me check your arm first.”

“It’s fine,” he retorts, halfway out the door. “It’s perfectly fine.”


	2. Devour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go coat shopping the next day, John grumbling half-heartedly as Sherlock drags him into various shops. He’d complain more if it weren’t for the genuine enthusiasm in Sherlock’s face as he eases each coat onto John’s shoulders, appraising John with laser focus as John turns and lifts his arms and completes seemingly random maneuvers at Sherlock’s behest. He has to remind himself they’re in public, and that Sherlock’s lips near his neck and his hands on John’s hips as they consider the most recent candidate in the mirror is not actually foreplay.

They go coat shopping the next day, John grumbling half-heartedly as Sherlock drags him into various shops. He’d complain more if it weren’t for the genuine enthusiasm in Sherlock’s face as he eases each coat onto John’s shoulders, running his hands down John’s sides to check the fit, appraising John with laser focus as John turns and lifts his arms and completes seemingly random maneuvers at Sherlock’s behest. It’s a bit flattering, really, and more than a little hot to have Sherlock eyeing him up. He has to remind himself they’re in public, and that Sherlock’s lips near his neck and his hands on John’s hips as they consider the most recent candidate in the mirror is not actually foreplay.

“I know you love to play dress-up, but I’m not your doll,” John grumbles as he spins with his arms out, feeling like an idiot even though no one’s paying them any attention.

“Really?” Sherlock murmurs distractedly, frowning at some minute detail that’s not to his satisfaction. “I rather thought that’s exactly what you were, my ‘doll’.”

John sighs loudly.

“No, this one won’t do. Take it off.”

Yes, John would definitely complain more, only this morning he found a jumper, identical to the one that was bloodstained and beyond repair, folded neatly on his chair. Eyebrows raised, he tried it on, finding it to fit perfectly, and a genuine smile split his lips. He _liked_ that jumper and had been sad to see it ruined. He looked up to find Sherlock leaning in their bedroom doorway, watching him with a disarmingly fond expression.

“You got this for me? I mean, of course you did. But you hated that jumper.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You liked it, though.”

So, John would complain more, except he’s feeling a bit soppy still, and Sherlock’s eyes light up as the next coat falls into place. Even John can feel the difference, the way the material hugs his frame, the comfortable weight of quality leather on his shoulders. It’s fitting without being restricting, and somehow makes his legs look longer and his eyes bluer. He feels himself straighten his spine automatically.

With Sherlock hovering over his shoulder, John can feel the way his breath is not entirely steady, can hear his slightly elevated heart rate.

“Okay,” John admits breathlessly. “It does look good.”

Sherlock huffs. “You look more than ‘good’. For God’s sake, don’t just see, _observe_.”

“You have the oddest way of giving compliments,” John retorts and is mildly dazzled by Sherlock’s responding grin.

“This is the one. Now hurry and take it off so we can pay for it and you can put it back on.”

It costs more than John is normally comfortable with spending on himself, but there’s really no saying no to Sherlock when he’s being insistent. He feels a bit spoiled really, but it helps that they’ve recently created a joint account to share their funds, so it’s not like Sherlock is using only his money.

Sherlock pulls him away from a waiting cab when they exit the shop. “Let’s walk home. I want that coat to smell like you as soon as possible.”

“You want it to smell like me?” John repeats skeptically.

“It smells too new.”

The coat stinks of plastic and carboard under the scent of new leather, with hints of the various people who touched and tried it on before John did. John doubts Sherlock can smell all that, but he gets his point.

“And you want to walk home why?”

The sidewalks are busy and John stays close to Sherlock’s side. He’s feeling happy and loved, his doubts of the last couple days seemingly far away, and he lets their shoulders bump as they walk, hands stuffed in his pockets against the crisp spring air. He has a half-day at the clinic today, but his shift doesn’t start for hours yet.

“Gets the blood pumping, makes you sweat a bit, lets you soak in the London air.” Sherlock shoots him a look. “I have a list of John-things you can do to expedite the process.”

“John-things?”

One of these ‘John-things’ involves making tea the moment they get back to the flat, the both of them flushed from the wind and the walk. John has to keep the coat on, of course, even as they sit and drink their beverages afterwards. When John complains that he’s getting hot, Sherlock herds him into the bedroom and kisses him into a languid heap, and before John realizes what’s happening, he’s completely nude except for the coat, lying against the headboard in confused lust as Sherlock strips as well.

“Wait, wait!” John exclaims at last. “I am not having sex with this coat on. It was far too expensive to risk staining it with questionable bodily fluids.”

“I’m curious,” Sherlock drawls, crawling onto the bed and straddling John’s legs. It’s a Pavlovian response, the way John’s hands settle on Sherlock’s leanly muscled waist. “Which bodily fluids are the unquestionable ones?” He places one hand on John’s coat-clad shoulder and the other slips into John’s hair, his nimble fingers massaging John’s scalp.

A shiver wracks John’s body and he gasps against Sherlock’s lips. They haven’t had sex in days and John is quickly forgetting his protests. “Uh, sweat is pretty unquestionable.”

Sherlock hums and grazes past John’s lips to press a kiss to his jaw instead, leaving John’s lips tingling in denied anticipation. “You know how meticulous I am,” he murmurs into John’s ear, the hand on his shoulder sliding down to his chest. “Do you really think I’d be so careless as to ruin this delectable coat?”

“I…” John’s hands have somehow found their way to Sherlock’s buttocks without his brain’s permission. “I mean…”

Sherlock encourages John to tilt back his head and delivers a series of kisses to John’s throat. “Yes?”

Their walk home has amplified Sherlock’s scent, too, and John greedily inhales the aroma of Sherlock’s lust and hair product and fresh sweat under the slight chemical tang of his ‘odourless’ anti-perspirant. They’re both getting hard, and when John squeezes Sherlock’s bum, Sherlock gasps against his throat and presses their hips together, wrenching groans from both of them. John has completely forgotten what he was meant to say as they quickly descend into inelegant grinding.

True to his word, Sherlock is careful to keep the edges of John’s coat spread and out of the way as they smear their combined excretions into their bellies. Their kisses grow heated as John shifts to better accommodate Sherlock between his legs and begins to massage Sherlock’s bum and thighs with intent. Sherlock breaks away with a sharp inhale when John’s searching fingers make their way along the expanse of sensitive skin from Sherlock’s anus to his balls.

There’s sweat prickling along John’s back and underarms, so he wrestles with Sherlock until the coat is off and lying beneath them, John on his back and holding Sherlock hard against him. Pupils blown wide and face flushed, Sherlock grips John’s biceps and circles his hips, thrusting into John’s hand encircling the both of them. He’s panting, eyelids half lowered with pleasure, and John feels a satisfied growl in the back of his throat at the sight, his free hand greedily roaming over all the skin he can reach. His palm sweeps up Sherlock’s tensing thigh, over his undulating hip, up his powerful waist and ribs, then grasps his shoulder to pull him down, closer.

Sherlock gasps his name and lowers willingly, curving his spine so John’s hand on their cocks has room to work, eagerly meeting John’s lips with his own. John maneuvers his head as he likes, pressing stinging kisses along Sherlock’s jaw and down his neck, simultaneously speeding the hand on their erections. The twitching of Sherlock’s hips increases, the hint of a moan in each exhale against John’s ear. Eager for more of those delicious sounds, John combs his fingers through Sherlock’s thick, silky curls, careful to graze his nails along his scalp, from his temple to his nape. A shiver wracks Sherlock’s body and his breath hitches. John can do better; he drags his nails from Sherlock’s nape and down his spine, and Sherlock lets out a full-blooded moan, back arching and cock twitching in John’s hand.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John gasps in response, his hips kicking up automatically. Neither of them are going to last much longer.

“Faster,” Sherlock demands, and John complies, speeding his hand, their erections hot and slick with their excitement.

With his free hand, John slips his fingers between Sherlock’s clenching buttocks and presses a finger against his anus, pulsing gently against that clenching ring of muscle.

“Oh, God, don’t stop,” Sherlock grinds out.

John clenches his eyes shut, trying to hold back, and squeezes his fist around them, pressing his finger hard against Sherlock’s anus. There’s a moment of electric anticipation, and then the muscle flares and relents, admitting John’s finger up to the first joint. Sherlock lets out a shocked, desperate sound and John loses it, back arching and hips pressing up as he comes with a near-snarl. His hand clenches around both of them with his pleasure, his cock twitching hard as he paints his own abdominals with his release, and above him, Sherlock shudders.

John pries open his eyes and has the urge to sink his teeth into Sherlock’s sex-flushed skin. His lips pull back in appreciation as Sherlock groans in bliss, his head tilting back and pelvis grinding against John as his orgasm rips through him. John quickly adjusts his grip to stroke Sherlock through it, pressing his finger deeper inside him to hear Sherlock’s voice go reedy with pleasure.

“Oh, fuck,” Sherlock gasps, the rare expletive falling from his swollen, parted lips as he adds to the mess on John’s stomach, his hips circling minutely as he rides the waves of sensation.

It’s an intoxicating sight, and John can’t help but pull his partner down against him, heedless of the mess. Sherlock retains the presence of mind to roll them with his momentum, saving John’s coat from any dubious stains. John laughs at the face Sherlock makes as their combined ejaculate glues them together.

“Disgusting,” he mutters, but doesn’t shove John off.

The room reeks of sex and John snickers into Sherlock’s neck. “That coat is going to stink if we keep doing that.”

Sherlock hums and traces aimless patterns on John’s skin.

“What time is it?” John yawns, utterly content in their little pocket of intimacy.

“Noon.”

“Shit!” John scrambles up and out of Sherlock’s arms. “My shift is in an hour,” he exclaims and heads straight for the shower.

“Perfect,” Sherlock calls after him. “Be sure to hang your coat in your examination room so it absorbs your doctor smell!”

 

 

A week later, Sherlock is in a bored sulk from a lack of cases when John decides a distraction is in order. He slips on his well broken-in coat and chucks Sherlock’s to land on the man’s face, where he is lying despondently on the couch.

“Put that on,” he orders. “We’re going out.”

At the height of melodrama, Sherlock splutters and squirms out from under his coat. “Since when?”

“Since now. Do you have workout clothes?”

“When have you ever known me to partake in recreational exercise?”

John crosses his arms. “Sweatpants, then? An old t-shirt?”

“What for?”

“You’ll see.” Sherlock huffs in annoyance but sits up, and John slings his own gym bag over his shoulder. “Go on, then.”

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock gets up and disappears into their room and emerges moments later with a dingy black bag. “I use it for my homeless disguise,” Sherlock mutters in response to John’s questioning look.

“Come on,” John says airily and makes his way out of the flat, relying on Sherlock’s curiosity to get him to follow. Sure enough, Sherlock’s footsteps are thumping up to meet him a moment later, the both of them emerging onto the pavement.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock complains, and huffs when John simply repeats his, “You’ll see.”

John figures they can walk as a warm up and by the time they reach the athletic centre twenty minutes later, he’s feeling comfortably limber. He has an army mate who trains here, and John figures it’s about time he took up the old offer of trying out the centre for free. Sherlock’s eyes dart around the centre as they approach the front desk and John gets them registered. The whole place smells like exertion, antiseptic, and metal. Once they’re signed in, John declines a tour of the facilities and leads Sherlock to the locker rooms, where they change into their workout clothes.

“Figured it out yet?” John teases as he laces his trainers, gazing up at Sherlock, who is pulling on a nondescript white t-shirt.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “With my not inconsiderable powers of deduction I have come to the conclusion that you wish for me to take part in combat training.” His words are snooty but he looks interested, so John simply smiles.

“Bingo.” John stands and shoves their things in a locker. “Let’s check this place out.”

They find an empty practice room, with padded floors and walls and a wooden chest filled with various training tools. Sherlock looks somewhat sceptical as he takes in the various punching mitts and pads, the rubber training knives, and polypropylene sticks.

Grabbing his shoulders, John pulls Sherlock into the centre of the room where they stand facing each other. Crossing his arms, Sherlock meets his gaze, eyebrow raised. ‘What’s the plan?’ that eyebrow seems to say.

John clears his throat. “So, as you know, I was an army doctor –”

“Who had ‘bad days’.”

“ – but I still received combat training. Enough that I figured I could teach you basic self-defence.”

“I know basic self-defence,” Sherlock points out, but John snorts.

“Could have fooled me,” he says to Sherlock’s offended expression. “For example, if I were to do this –” John fluidly sidesteps Sherlock and wraps an arm around his neck, pulling him backwards and off his centre of gravity in one move. Sherlock yelps a bit and stumbles back, hands automatically grasping at John’s arm. John keeps his body back and dodges Sherlock’s ineffectively waving hands, keeping Sherlock’s back awkwardly arched so that he can’t get his feet under him. He’s not exerting any pressure on Sherlock’s neck, simply holding him in this position, where John’s shorter stature is actually an advantage. “What do you do now, hm?” John asks.

Sherlock grunts and twists against him. “Alright! No need to be so smug about it.”

Releasing him, John lets Sherlock stand and turn to face him. “I’m not smug,” he says honestly, calm under the sharp eyes darting over his expression. “You wear that bloody scarf all the time and I’ve seen you restrained by it.”

Lips twisting, Sherlock concedes with a nod. “Fine, what have you got?”

 

 

They’ve been practicing and doing some light sparring for about fifteen minutes when there’s a knock on the door. It opens to reveal a large, muscular man, mid-thirties, a good half-head taller than Sherlock, with a broad smile and the eyes of a man beyond his years. He steps into the room and Sherlock takes in the lower leg prosthetic, a hundred connections snapping into place in his head.

“Johnny, old man!” the newcomer booms, striding up to them with the fluidity of years of practice with the prosthetic.

John steps up to him to accept an enthusiastic handshake. “Jared,” John greets him with a smile. “It’s good to see you. You look well.”

“I feel well. Christ, though, John, how long’s it been? Two years?”

“It’s been a while,” John agrees and looks to Sherlock, prompting Jared to turn his incessant smile on him. “Jared, this is my partner, Sherlock. Sherlock, meet Jared, a –”

“Friend of yours from the army,” Sherlock interrupts, accepting Jared’s firm handshake, aware that his own palm is slightly clammy. John is a good teacher, with a very physical approach that Sherlock has been appreciating, but he tends not to enjoy meeting new people when he’s sweaty with exertion and sporting ratty sweatpants. “I figured.”

“What gave me away?” Jared asks jovially. “I came back with three-quarters of my limbs!”

“Seven-eighths, really. You’re only missing half of the right leg.”

Jared blinks at him and lets out a booming laugh, his shoulders shaking with mirth. “I like this one, John!” he exclaims, and the beginnings of mortification slip away from John’s face. “Where did you find him?”

“Through a mutual acquaintance,” John says, a smile tugging at his lips in response to Jared’s infectious laughter. Such aggressive positivity would be grating were it not for the man's genuine aura of warmth.

Once his laughter has petered out, Jared wipes tears from his eyes. “So, what have you been up to since you got back to London?”

“I’m still practicing medicine,” John says, and Sherlock notes with interest the way John’s posture has changed minutely, becoming military straight. “I’ve been doing some locum work. Sherlock is a consulting detective.”

Jared’s attention shifts back to him, curiosity written upon his face. “Consulting detective?”

“I assist the police with their investigations.”

Impressed eyebrows crinkle Jared’s forehead and he gives John an approving slap on the shoulder. “Funny and brave. You done good, Johnny.”

It’s surreal, this description of Sherlock by a man whose past career had ‘brave’ in the job description. And Sherlock can’t recall the last time he’s been called ‘funny’ in any context that wasn’t mocking.

“So, what are you two working on today? Anything I can help with? I’m a trainer here,” Jared says to Sherlock, as if it weren’t obvious.

“I was just showing Sherlock some self-defence, but we could use some pointers,” John agrees.

Jared claps his hands together in delight. “Let’s get to it, then.”

 

 

By the time they finish up forty-five minutes later, Sherlock is sweaty, covered in bruises, and with a sense of progress, if not accomplishment. He’s been dumped onto the mat a dozen times, but he is now somewhat confident in his ability to escape from the strangle hold that John demonstrated.

As they refresh themselves at a water fountain, John mentions a weapons training room he read about online and Jared’s eyes light up.

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” he crows, and leads the way past joggers and weight lifters to a back room, which he accesses with a four-digit code that is painfully obvious by the wear pattern on the keys.

The room is light and airy, with a procession of targets and dummies against one wall and a clear cupboard of weapons on the other. There are rows of firearms and various knives.

 “They’re unloaded,” Jared says, looking at the cupboard with his hands on his hips, “and we’ve only got rubber bullets, of course. The knives are decently sharp though.”

“You get a lot of cops and army types, then?” John wonders.

Jared nods. “This place is great for training and for physical therapy, believe it or not. Before being hired here, I came to relearn my training with Jared Junior,” he says, giving his prosthetic a wriggle. “That, and to recover my mental health which was pretty shit.”

“Your wife and kids surely appreciate that,” Sherlock says distractedly, eyes sweeping the room, noting a child’s drawing of a colourful, grimacing monster taped to one of the targets.

“How did you…? Oh.” Jared smiles and approaches the drawing that caught Sherlock’s eye. “This is from my oldest, Natalie. She figures herself a ninja, but the missus won’t let her start training until she’s six,” Jared says with a wink. His smile fades as he considers the drawing. “I struggled with a lot of anger when I was sent home. I was furious that I’d lost my leg, angry that I’d lost my career, I was even angry with my family for being so accepting of me when I felt like I didn’t deserve it. I tried to bottle it up, but then I’d just explode over the smallest things. It got to the point where Natalie would shy away from me if I so much as raised my voice – that’s when I knew I needed help.”

Sherlock stands stock still, utterly uncomfortable. He has no idea what he’s meant to say to such a thing. It’s not like he and John blab about their innermost emotions all that often, and the only other times he’s faced with emotional people is when he has a client with a problem he can solve.

John clears his throat, also uncomfortable but sympathetic. “Jared…”

“Oh, it’s alright.” Jared turns and flashes that warm smile again. “I’m much better now and I like to share my story. It’s good to fight the stigma of mental health, right, Doctor Watson? And I work with all sorts of people every day, some struggling more so than others. Speaking of, I hate to cut this short, but I have a class in five minutes.”

John accepts the excuse gratefully and Sherlock follows suit, shaking hands with the trainer again before retreating to the change room. John is silent and distracted as they leave, and climbs into the cab Sherlock hails without protest.

“You two were close?” Sherlock asks, watching John’s expression in the passenger window.

“Hm?” John’s eyebrows twitch in genuine surprise. “No, not really.”

Silence falls again, and Sherlock frowns, drying to deduce what has put John in such a brown study. Did he feel some sort of guilt for the circumstances surrounding the loss of Jared’s limb? Had the conversation brought back unpleasant memories? Or, perhaps the mention of Jared’s family, his wife and kids, reminded John of what he can’t have – not with Sherlock. Sherlock turns away, clenching his hands in his lap.

When they arrive home, John slips out of the cab and into the building, leaving Sherlock to pay the fare. By the time Sherlock reaches their sitting room, John is gone, the soft thud of his bedroom door closing echoing down the stairs. At a loss, Sherlock stands for a moment, before slowly shucking his outer layers. Obviously, he can’t leave John to ruminate too deeply, but perhaps a shower first. He takes his time in the shower, but not so long that the hot water runs out, then takes his time with his hair, brushing and drying and styling it to perfection. He takes pride in his appearance and knowing that John appreciates his hair has only encouraged his intricate styling process. Once he’s dressed, he makes tea, counting the steeping time down to the second, carefully measuring out the milk for them both and sugar for himself.

The stairs to John’s room creak under his weight, but any efforts at stealth would be useless against John’s werewolf hearing. When he reaches John’s door, he holds both mugs in one hand and knocks. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“I made tea.”

A pause. “Thanks, I’ll be down in a bit.”

Sherlock strains his ears, but he can’t hear what John is doing. “I brought the tea here. May I open your door?”

“Yeah, fine.”

Sherlock pushes the door open, but otherwise doesn’t cross the border into John’s room. It’s one of their agreements, since John became a werewolf, that John needs a safe space he can retreat to when the wolf is feeling especially aggressive and territorial. The fact that John is hiding out here now is mildly concerning, but curiosity overcomes Sherlock’s worry when he sees John sitting on his bed, surrounded by worn photographs. In his hands is what looks like a dagger, all sleek black and chrome with a blade that tapers to a deadly point.

“Should I be worried?” Sherlock asks, employing sarcasm to cover the sincerity of the question.

John lowers the knife and considers the photographs scattered around him. “I guess seeing Jared made a bit nostalgic.”

_Lie_ , Sherlock thinks. The photos may have made him nostalgic, but nostalgia hadn’t persuaded him to retrieve them in the first place. He had been upset after seeing Jared.

“May I?” Sherlock asks, holding out a hand for the dagger. Something about the way John is sitting makes him want the weapon out of John’s hands.

The photos are quickly placed back in their box and John stands, coming to Sherlock with the knife.

“Take this, it’s hot,” Sherlock complains, holding out John’s mug, and they make a trade, the tea for the dagger.

It’s a beautiful weapon, really, with a textured handle for grip and a double-edged, black metal blade. By its design, it is clear this knife was meant for close quarters combat, shaped perfectly to slip between a combatant’s ribs. Sherlock turns it over in his hands, perusing his mental catalogue of combat knifes to find its name.

John blows on his tea and takes a sip, humming in approval. “It’s not exactly standard issue,” he admits.

“It’s seen use.” Sherlock meets his eyes.

John nods. “It saved my life once. It was a gift.” John takes another sip, stalling. “From my father.”

Curiosity piqued, Sherlock lowers the knife to give John his full attention, but his partner turns away, fussing with the box of photographs and putting it beneath his bed one-handed.

“I doubt it’ll see any more action,” John mutters. “You might as well keep it. Maybe it’ll come in handy with a case some day.”

“He gave this to you when you enlisted,” Sherlock says, deductions forming faster than words. “It’s a sign of pride, he was happy for you. He was a military man himself, wasn’t he? Yes, and you were following in his footsteps. Why would you want to give it – ah.” Sherlock cuts himself off, watching John lick his lips – a tick of his when he’s uncomfortable – and clench his left fist.

“My going into the army was the only thing Dad approved of. When I enlisted, I was young enough that that was still important to me.”

More deductions form, but this time Sherlock has the tact to stay silent.

“Anyway,” John says with a sniff. “My father’s dead and I’m not in the army, so, like I said, you might as well keep it.” He brushes past Sherlock and down the stairs.

 

 

Later, when they’re watching some crap film on the telly and munching on popcorn, Sherlock says, “You’re not like your father.”

It’s not until the credits are rolling that John says, “I used to think that, too.”

 

 

The first time it happens, Sherlock doesn’t even realize it right away. The case is solved, the kidnapper in police custody, the kidnapped child returned safely to his family. Everything ought to be perfect, and yet Sherlock can’t quite settle into that post-case bliss, when everything is dazzlingly clear and the world makes sense.

“Coming to bed?” John asks around a yawn, leaning against the bedroom door frame in his pajamas.

Crouched in his chair, Sherlock shakes his head. “Need to organize everything in here.” He points to his forehead.

“Suit yourself,” John sighs, already retreating towards the bed. “Don’t wake me up at three in the morning.”

He runs through the facts of the case again, checking for any possible loose ends, but everything seems to be in order. The family was so grateful, they even gave Sherlock an expensive gold watch. A useless gift, and Sherlock told them so, since he primarily uses his mobile to tell the time. The odd occasion he wears a watch it’s a cheap brand that can withstand some rough treatment. He tried to return the watch so that they could give it to someone more appropriate – a grandparent perhaps, or the vain, businessman uncle who had made a nuisance of himself – but the family misunderstood him and became offended and he was forced to keep the watch for the sake of civility. And now the watch is sitting on the coffee table, ready to collect dust since John refused to take it and –

Oh.

All at once, Sherlock realizes what is missing from this little sequence of events. John. John who was so helpful up to and including the conclusion of the case, but when Sherlock found himself in a social blunder at its epilogue, John stayed silent instead of smoothing the way like usual.

Satisfied with his solution of this miniature mystery, Sherlock opens his eyes and checks the time – on his _mobile_. It’s two thirty and he wonders if he should follow the spirit or the letter of John’s earlier request. Granted, they’ve had several all-nighters in the past week, so it’s no wonder John was grumpy and unwilling to correct Sherlock’s faux pas. If he’s careful, Sherlock reckons he can slip into bed without waking his partner up.

 

 

They visit the training centre a few days before the next full moon. Sherlock needs the practice and John needs to let off some steam. Sherlock made the mistake earlier of telling John to quit his job so that he could assist with cases full-time, and received an earful about how Sherlock ‘takes John for granted’ and ‘treats John like a pet’ for his trouble. The moment when John decides to willfully misunderstand him is the moment they both ought to get out of the flat.

They start with the punching mitts, but even with the padding Sherlock grimaces with each of John’s punches, which are powerful enough to send him staggering backwards. It’s intimidating, having all of the wolf’s aggression targeted on him. They try grab break-out maneuvers for about five minutes before John loses patience and Sherlock has new bruises on his forearms.

“Sorry,” John mutters, rubbing his forehead.

“Let’s try out the weapons room,” Sherlock offers and John grunts his agreement. He doubts John has the focus at the moment for shooting, but they manage it for a good quarter of an hour, the both of them emptying rounds of rubber bullets into red and blue targets. Sherlock never misses the target, but John never hits outside the centre ring and Sherlock can’t help but watch and admire him, eyes running along the strong line of him from the gun, up his arm, across his shoulders, down his back, and to his steadily planted feet.

When the gun’s chamber is empty, Sherlock lets out a low whistle. “Crack shot, just like I said.”

John flashes a smile that’s more menace than pleasure and Sherlock swallows hard. He wants to step up behind his partner and press himself to John’s back, wants to feel every quiver of muscle as John takes his shot.

“Can I feel you?” Sherlock asks, stepping closer. “While you shoot?”

John hesitates and Sherlock hates that there is an invisible force separating them, the moon pulling John away from him. At last, John nods and Sherlock glues himself to John’s back, handing him a fresh clip. He copies John’s position, left hand at his side and right raised, fingertips tickling the back of John’s gun-wielding hand, covering John like a cloak. John’s hair tickles his lips and the muscles of his back flex against Sherlock’s chest. It’s imperfect, and Sherlock wishes he could step into John’s skin, but the moment John squeezes the trigger is glorious. The recoil shudders up John’s arm and is absorbed by his shoulder and core, the tension and give of muscle echoing into Sherlock’s body. The force pushes John back a touch, just enough that his arse comes in contact with Sherlock’s pelvis.

The shot hits the target a good two inches outside the inner ring.

“Observer effect,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s hair, glad that the place is nearly empty in the middle of a weekday.

“You mean Octopus Boyfriend effect,” John counters and Sherlock steps back with a scowl.

“Octopus _Partner_.”

John lowers the firearm and turns with a lopsided smile, glancing at Sherlock’s sweatpants. “Enjoy that did you?”

“How could I not?” Sherlock retorts, chin high.

With a laugh, John removes the clip and safeties the gun. “Go grab a plastic knife, I’m going to show you how to stab someone in the heart.”

 

 

It’s the night before the full moon and Sherlock is alone in his bed, listening to John pacing in the bedroom upstairs. He doubts either of them will get much sleep tonight.

Sitting cross legged against the headboard, Sherlock opens his laptop and starts a new email. Ellen Frankland gave him her email in Dartmoor, before she left for her flight to Australia, and Sherlock never got around to deleting it from his mind palace.

_Hello Ellen_ , he types.

_You told me to email you if I decided to leave John. I haven’t emailed you because I did not do so. Perhaps you can appreciate then that I have questions. It would be in your best interests to answer them, knowing what I do about your late brother’s house fire._

_Did you find him isolating himself during a certain time of month? Did he pull away from you? Was his pet wolf distrustful and angry with everyone or did Frankland’s emotions give the anger a target?_

_SH_

He doesn’t send the email. The address and subject bars remain blank as he stares at the screen, trying to deduce what John has just broken by the muffled crash through the ceiling.

 

 

The drive to the forest and the walk to the safehouse are done in silence. The sun is setting as they arrive, Sherlock locking the door behind them as John heads for the cellar. By the time Sherlock joins him, John is half naked and in the process of removing his trousers. Sherlock would help him if he didn’t think John would bite his head off (possibly literally).

“Alright?” Sherlock asks, as the final chain is locked into place.

“Of course I’m not bloody alright,” John mutters, shivering with adrenaline and the wolf’s rage. “You have your silver knife and my gun?”

Sherlock nods and presses a kiss to John’s scarred shoulder. As he’s locking the cell between them, John growls, “I love you,” but there is only violence in his voice.

Sherlock does not stay to watch the transformation this time. He can’t. His heart is thundering and his hands shake with fear – fear! He’s afraid of John and it’s the most cowardly, despicable – he sits at the top of the stairs and presses his pathetic, shivering hands to his ears to block out John’s hatefully familiar screams.

Perhaps Sherlock is not to blame for what has happened to John, but he can’t absolve himself of all responsibility. If only he hadn’t brought John on the case. If only he had looked more into Henry’s father’s past. If only he had caught Frankland sooner. If only he had been a better shot when the werewolf was tearing John to pieces. The ‘ifs’ circle his brain like the sun around the earth – or was it the earth around the sun? – a relentless procession of useless alternate scenarios. If only John had died from his wounds, he wouldn’t be suffering this now. Maybe John would have preferred that.

Scrambling up the last of the stairs, Sherlock closes the cellar door to block out the howling and, like a child, climbs into the bed with his clothes still on, pulling the sheets over his head.

Perhaps John subconsciously blames Sherlock, like he should. Maybe the furious wolf that John struggles to contain is expressing the anger that John won’t.

 

 

The day after the full moon John can’t go into work because feels like utter shit. Not physically – physically he feels better than fine – but his brain feels like it’s waging a war against itself, twisting and snapping and drowning in sludge all at once. He hasn’t felt this odd combination of confused apathy and angry self-hatred since his discharge from the army, and it gets worse every time Sherlock flinches away from him. Since unlocking him from the cell, Sherlock has been skittish and over-solicitous, insisting on making John tea, but tensing when John strokes his fingers in thanks, letting John read the newspaper first, but unwilling to sit with him on the couch… When Sherlock swerves out of his way in the kitchen when John goes to wash his dirty mug, the trapped, drowning, angry thing in his head snaps its jaws and John nearly breaks the mug when he drops it in the sink.

He retreats upstairs immediately, terrified of the thoughts and images flashing in the back of his head. He paces for several minutes before the comforting smells of his room take the edge off the anger: no Sherlock, no acid, no cleaning chemicals, no mould. Just dust and paper and wood. Sitting on the floor, he closes his eyes and breathes, inhaling through his nose, holding his breath, and exhaling through his mouth. He’s never put much stock in meditation or breathing exercises, but it gives him something to focus on as he attempts to lower his heartrate.

There is some terrible darkness in the back of John’s mind, the thing he’s come to call the wolf, a separate entity from himself that rears its head when John is stressed or anxious or angry. It’s an easy scapegoat, the wolf, but John is starting to think he’s kidding himself with the idea that the connection between the two parts of himself is one way. The darkness did not spring into existence after he became a werewolf – it was always there. It was there when he was never good enough for his father, it was there when his mother took up drinking, it was there when Harry dropped out of college, it was there when he enlisted, and there when he was invalided. At some points in his life it was easy to ignore, a mere shadow, while at other times it was a fucking black hole, seemingly impossible to escape.

What scares him most isn’t the wolf, but rather the certainty that he is feeding the wolf’s anger as much as it is devouring him from the inside out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are appreciated! Come say hi to me on [Tumblr!](https://notesoflore.tumblr.com/)


	3. Defend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get a client two days later, and Sherlock could not be more glad. Work is the best antidote to sorrow, he’s always thought, and he has no other ideas for getting John out of this period of moroseness. Half of the problem is that he’s not sure what John is ruminating on, and the other half is that he’s certain it somehow has to do with Sherlock. In the back of his mind palace is a straining door with water trickling out the bottom, barely holding back a flood of guilt and anxiety that John will come to his senses and realize Sherlock is the reason his life is in shambles.

They get a client two days later, and Sherlock could not be more glad. Work is the best antidote to sorrow, he’s always thought, and he has no other ideas for getting John out of this period of moroseness. Half of the problem is that he’s not sure what John is ruminating on, and the other half is that he’s certain it somehow has to do with Sherlock. In the back of his mind palace is a straining door with water trickling out the bottom, barely holding back a flood of guilt and anxiety that John will come to his senses and realize Sherlock is the reason his life is in shambles.

Their client doesn’t fidget in his chair, nor does he seem in any particular rush. He’s frustrated, not worried, and that in itself is enough to intrigue Sherlock. Once John is seated with a pen and notebook, Sherlock beckons Mr. Wilson to state his problem.

“Well, it’s a bit odd, but you like the odd ones, don’t you Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Wilson begins. “I have very red hair.”

Sherlock stares. He legitimately can’t think of anything to say. It is true that this man, who lives alone, types a lot, and is overweight, does have vibrantly ginger hair. What of it?

“Yes, and…?” John prompts.

“Right, well, a few weeks ago –”

“How many, precisely?” Sherlock demands.

Wilson pauses in surprise, considering. “Well, four and a half I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Well,” he says again, and Sherlock grits his teeth. “Yes, four and a half weeks precisely.”

“And what happened precisely four and a half weeks ago?” John prompts again, a tinge of amusement to his voice.

“Well, I’m a writer, but times have been tough recently. Then a friend texted me about this job posting, a modeling company looking for red-headed men.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and Wilson nods.

“I know I’m not the most handsome of men, Mr. Holmes, but I did some acting as a child and I figured, no harm in trying, right? So I sent in my photo and application –”

“Might I see the job posting?”

“Well, yes, certainly,” Wilson says, fumbling for his mobile. “I’ll just have to find it…”

Tedious. Sherlock sighs. “Never mind, send it to me after. Go on.”

“Well, as I said, I sent in my application and, to my surprise, I got a response almost immediately, asking me in for an interview that same day!”

“And the interview went well?” John asks, scribbling in his notebook.

“Very well. They hired me on the spot and wanted me to start the next day.”

“What kind of work were you to do?”

“See, that’s the odd thing, Mr. Holmes. It wasn’t modeling at all. All they wanted me to do was coding.”

“Coding?” John repeats.

Mr. Wilson nods. “There were lines of code written on paper and all I was meant to do was type them up into some fancy coding program. I told them I’d never coded before in my life, but they said it didn’t matter.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Sherlock demands.

“Well, the Red-Headed League, they called themselves. And they paid quite well – fifteen pounds an hour! I thought it sounded a bit culty, and aren’t there discrimination laws against hiring people on looks? Anyway, I figured no harm in getting some easy money out of them, at least until I got back on my feet with my next novel. It went quite well, and I was paid weekly in cash, but then today when I showed up for work, there was a sign on my office door saying the company had folded, just like that! I tried emailing, but it just bounced back, and no one else in the building had any idea what I was talking about.”

It is such a ridiculous story that Sherlock has to bite his tongue against saying something rude. Then he glances at John, who is watching Mr. Wilson with a bemused expression, and decides to do a little experiment at Mr. Wilson’s expense.

“Mr. Wilson, are you quite gullible?” Sherlock asks, leaning back in his chair.

Their client blinks and straightens. “Excuse me?”

“I hate repeating myself,” Sherlock says bitingly. “Only an idiot would fall for such an obvious ruse.”

At this point, with the client spluttering and turning red, John should step in, settle ruffled feathers, tell Sherlock off. Any moment now… John is silent, staring stonily at his notebook. Why?

Sherlock takes out his frustration on Mr. Wilson. “Honestly, no wonder you’re out of work. I can’t imagine you’ve ever written anything worth reading in your entire life.”

Outraged, Mr. Wilson jumps to his feet. “Well, if that’s how you see it Mr. Holmes, I can see I’ve wasted my time asking for help from an utter –”

“Oh, save it. You’ve recently moved into a new building, don’t bother asking how I know, I just do. It’s horrid isn’t it, was standing empty for ages, likely because of the mould problem. You move in, and what used to be an abandoned flat is now occupied twenty-four-seven by an ineffective writer. I imagine someone wanted you out so they could continue the business they had been conducting.”

Mr. Wilson stands, stupefied, halfway to the door, caught in the tirade of deductions. Somehow it doesn’t make Sherlock feel better.

“Oh, get out. I’ll solve your case.” The red-head opens his mouth, but Sherlock interrupts him. “Not another word. Text me your address and the job posting and leave.”

Once the mystified Mr. Wilson has vacated the premises, Sherlock stares at his cracked mobile screen (he really should get that fixed) and the most flagrantly fraudulent job posting he has ever seen. He wasn’t kidding when he called Mr. Wilson gullible.

Launching himself from his chair, Sherlock grabs his coat. “Come on, John, the case is practically solved but I’d like to take a look at his flat to confirm my suspicions.”

John chucks his notebook and pen on the desk. “I’ve got a shift actually.”

“Call in sick,” Sherlock retorts, grabbing John’s new coat from its hook. “Bit ironic, but I suppose you can write your own sick note.”

“I’m not dropping everything just to run after you like a dog, especially if the case is ‘practically solved’.”

Sherlock lets the coat drop back on its hook. “Fine, suit yourself.” He’s not willing to argue about this again. “I’ll probably be back before you. Don’t worry, I won’t wait up.”

He can use the time to think, anyway.

 

 

Two hours later, Sherlock stands on the street as the police raid moves in, arresting the group of smugglers who had been using Mr. Wilson’s flat as a drop point. Emergency lights flashing in his face, Sherlock stands with his hands in his pockets as Lestrade saunters up beside him.

“Where’s your better half?”

“At work.”

“Ah. You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, you look less elated than you usually do when you’ve solved a case.”

“This one was barely a two. Wilson’s just an idiot.”

Lestrade sighs. “Why am I not surprised you have a rating system for cases.”

“Why are you here? No one died so it’s not your division.” Lestrade opens his mouth but Sherlock cuts him off, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Actually, I don’t care. Know what I realized? After John’s…attack, my brother sent us a package of things to help me, but nothing to help John.”

“A package,” Lestrade repeats dubiously. “What was in it?”

Sherlock shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. “I think John’s hiding something.”

Lestrade crosses his arms. “Okay, obviously you don’t want to actually tell me anything.”

“I should help John, but what if he doesn’t want my assistance?”

Lestrade sighs in annoyance. “Sometimes the people who want help the least are the ones that need it the most. That’s the vaguest advice I can give you with what little you’ve told me.”

“You sound like a fortune cookie,” Sherlock mutters and walks away.

 

 

Sherlock spends the next few days gathering data; the more he knows, the better he can help John. However, now that Sherlock has taken up this project, John seems to return to his usual self. One lazy Sunday John wakes him with kisses along his shoulder and down his back, which leads to a session of slow sex that leaves Sherlock in a blissed-out daze all morning. They go on cases, John works a few shifts per week, they make dinner together when they get sick of takeout, they watch the occasional film while John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, John blogs about their cases while Sherlock does experiments… It’s utterly domestic and perfect and yet Sherlock could swear there is something John is holding back, some shield he has put up between them.

It’s the little things, like the way John is very careful never to lose his temper, even when the frozen pig liver in the fridge leaks onto the leftovers. He spends more time in his room and they increase their trips to the training centre, where John will spend fifteen minutes with a punching bag rather than sparring with Sherlock. They both have nightmares and neither mentions it.

 

 

The nightmare is particularly bad tonight. By the time Sherlock shudders awake, all he can remember is darkness, red eyes, glistening fangs, and a sense of terror so intense he’s panting, the sheets damp with his sweat. He covers his mouth with his hand, fighting to silence his gasps, but the mattress shifts behind him.

“Sherlock?” John murmurs, his hand landing on Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock flinches violently and scrambles out of bed, heading for the loo. He’s shaking with the last of the dream’s adrenaline as he splashes water on his face, wishing desperately for a cigarette. He decides to have a quick shower and curses himself mentally as he washes brusquely, hoping John is too tired to put much stock in his reaction.

When he steps back into the bedroom, John is sitting on his side of the bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Sherlock feels himself go pale.

“Would you prefer if I slept upstairs?” John asks, not facing him.

Sherlock swallows. “No, of course not.”

The tension in John’s back does not dissipate. “It can’t be easy, sleeping next to a monster.”

Sherlock crawls onto the bed and tugs on John’s stiff shoulder, pulling him down to lie against Sherlock’s chest. “Don’t be an idiot.”

They don’t sleep much the rest of the night, and when John gets up at five Sherlock doesn’t protest.

 

 

_Ellen_ , Sherlock types. _You were afraid of him, too. He did this to John and ruined everything. It’s not just once a month, it’s all the time, this thing that hangs between us. You left your brother, you coward. I refuse to do the same._

He doesn’t hit send.

 

 

Josiah Amberley pays them a visit halfway through the month with a plea to find his missing wife.

“Her suitcase and clothes are gone and she took our emergency cash,” he says plaintively, and John feels a pang of sympathy for the man. “She’s run off with Ray, I’m sure of it, but I just want to know she’s okay.”

“Ray?” Sherlock asks.

“Our neighbour,” Amberley sighs. “There were hints before, but now I know they were having an affair.”

“Mr. Amberley,” John says, “why haven’t you gone to the police?”

“I have, but because it looks like she left of her own free will, they told me to wait a couple days and to try contacting her by mobile for now.”

“You’ve been doing some house renovations, Mr. Amberley?” Sherlock asks and John peers at the client more closely, trying to see what Sherlock noticed. There must be a splotch of paint on his clothes somewhere.

“Why, yes. I’m a retired art dealer and we’ve been building a new room to display some of our favourite paintings. Why is that important?”

Sherlock waves a hand. “It might not be. I’m curious by nature.”

“When did you notice she went missing?” John prompts, getting the conversation back on track.

“Two evenings ago, when I got back from a performance by the London Symphony Orchestra. We were supposed to go together, but she wasn’t home, so I went without her. When she still wasn’t there when I got home, I knew something was wrong.”

“You have a strongroom, yes?” Sherlock demands.

Bewildered, Amberley nods. “Yes. Some of the paintings are very valuable. They’re stored in the strongroom.”

“I’d like to see it,” Sherlock says and stands.

Amberley stands as well. “So you’ll help find my Jillian then?”

“Yes, may we come to your house now? I need to gather data.”

“Of course, please. Here’s my address.”

John stands and opens the door for the man with a sympathetic smile. “Try not to worry. We’ll be there soon.” Once he’s gone, John turns to Sherlock with a questioning frown. “Doesn’t seem like a complex case – the wife ran off with her lover. Why’d you take it?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Mr. Amberley didn’t strike me as very distraught that his wife has left him. He was lying when he said he wanted to make sure she’s okay.” He considers his coat, but leaves it. It’s a beautiful day with summer just around the corner.

“If you say so,” John agrees, and follows his partner down the stairs.

 

 

When the cab pulls up in front of Amberley’s house, Sherlock pats his trousers with a frown then reaches for John’s pocket, pulling out his wallet.

Alarm shoots through John and he snags back his wallet before Sherlock can open it. “What the hell, Sherlock!”

“I forgot my wallet at home,” Sherlock complains, frowning defensively in a way that makes John’s blood boil.

“Don’t take my stuff without asking, for fuck’s sake,” John snaps, knowing he’s overreacting. He holds back the rest of the tirade that wants to come out, knowing it’ll only make Sherlock curious. As he pays the cabbie, he can already see that Sherlock is eyeing him, surprised by his outburst. “Come on,” he mutters and climbs out of the cab.

Amberley’s house is painfully tasteful and practically smells like money, with marble countertops, barely used furniture, and expensive looking décor. It would feel cold except for the family photos that dot the walls, showing Mr. and Mrs. Amberley in various vacation destinations.

“You don’t have children?” John asks, trailing along behind Sherlock as Amberley gives them a tour of the living room.

“No. Neither of us wanted them,” he says easily. “The strongroom is this way if you’d like to see it.”

Rather than follow right away, Sherlock pauses in front of a photo and gives John a significant look. Brow furrowed, John glances at the photo as Sherlock follows their host, trying to determine what is so important in a photo of Amberley holding a prize for a skeet shooting competition.

The strongroom is accessed through an office, a thick steel door hidden behind a shelving unit. With his body hiding the keypad, Amberley punches in the code while Sherlock eyes the papers on the desk, his long fingers flicking out to uncover what looks like a concert ticket.

“Does your wife know the code?” John asks as the heavy door swings open, the stinging scent of bleach wafting out.

“Yes, of course. This is where our emergency cash was stored. Please, come in.”

The strongroom is about nine square metres and mostly empty, only a few paintings and boxes leaning against the walls. It was recently cleaned, going by the stench of bleach, and John is forced to step out into the office, eyes watering.

“Where are the rest of the paintings?” Sherlock demands, eyes flicking around the room. “Surely you have more.”

“Out in the hall. The display room is almost ready for them.”

“And why did you decide to dump a bottle of bleach in here?”

“Jillian cleans it twice a year,” Amberley says with a shrug.

“So, you didn’t do this?” Sherlock pushes. “I need to see your laundry.”

“Pardon me? I really don’t think…”

The urge to chastise Sherlock makes John open his mouth, but he restrains himself.

“Oh, never mind. I need to make a quick phone call, you don’t mind do you?” he asks and sweeps out, mobile to his ear.

John stands by awkwardly as Amberley closes the strongroom door. “So, what got you into the art dealership industry?” he asks, and Amberley launches into an enthusiastic monologue.

Sherlock steps back into the room five minutes later, stopping Amberley mid-word. His eyes are fierce and incredibly blue. “Where is this display room you keep mentioning?”

John’s relief at getting away from the stench of bleach is short-lived, since the pungent odour of drying paint assails his nose next. The display room is bright despite being windowless, the newly erected walls painted white. There are hand tools and painting supplies still on the floor. Head aching, John sniffles discreetly as Sherlock takes in the room, a tense expression on his face. Amberley is babbling on about which paintings he is planning to put up, gesturing with his hands where each one will go.

“Mr. Amberley,” Sherlock interrupts, voice clipped with some emotion John suspects is excitement. John feels his heart rate pick up in sympathy. “Would you be so good as to make some tea for John? He’s quite sensitive to scents and I believe the fumes are bothering him.”

John looks to Sherlock in surprise, about to protest, but Sherlock glares at him meaningfully. John lets out a little cough and, voice raspy, says, “Thank you, I’d really appreciate that.”

“Of course! I won’t be a moment,” Amberley says, leaving the room.

The moment he’s out of sight, Sherlock picks up a hammer.

“What are you doing?” John hisses, grabbing his arm.

“He killed them,” Sherlock hisses back. “His wife and the neighbour. I called Lestrade.”

“What! How can you possibly –”

Shaking him off, Sherlock bursts into a rapid-fire explanation, barely pausing for breath as he lists his observations. “He knows how to use a rifle. Only half the strongroom was cleaned and the rest of the items recently moved. He has chemical burns on his fingers from the bleach, his wife didn’t clean it. These three walls have been completed for weeks while this one,” Sherlock points at the wall with the hammer, “was redone in the last two days, and poorly at that. His tickets for the orchestra were never used. Those paint cans are sitting directly on the wood floor – the protective tarp is missing. What conclusion might we come to, hm?”

Stunned, John steps back and watches as Sherlock attacks the wall with the hammer, gouging the plaster and widening the hole with the claw. It makes a terrible racket and John can hear the crash of china elsewhere in the house. Tearing at the wall viciously, Sherlock creates a gaping hole, through which the plastic-wrapped, bloody face of the deceased Mrs. Amberley appears. A hint of death trickles into John’s nostrils.

The pounding of footsteps precedes the appearance of Mr. Amberley, wild-eyed and holding a rifle. “You can’t do that!” he wails and aims the weapon at John, who is closest to him.

Sherlock slams into John just as the weapon fires, the weight of him sending them both sprawling as the tang of blood bursts through the air. The wolf perks up at the scent and fury makes John’s teeth ache. He doesn’t even pause to check Sherlock, launching himself at Amberley with a snarl. The splintering of the front door and shouting of ‘Police!’ break out as John roughly disarms Amberley and pins him to the wall by the throat. The killer’s eyes bug out in alarm, face going red as his oxygen is cut off, nails clawing at John’s hand and face. Teeth bared, John snarls in his face and lifts the man off the floor.

Heavy boots pound down the hallway towards them. “Police! Raise your hands or I’ll shoot!”

For a moment, John considers disobeying. He can snap Amberley’s neck in a second and a regular bullet won’t kill him.

“John!” Sherlock shouts, voice strained, and John releases his grip, letting Amberly collapse to the floor as he steps back and raises his hands.

More footsteps and Lestrade arrives on scene, bidding the first officer to lower his weapon. “Christ, what the hell is going on here?”

“Sherlock’s been shot,” John grinds out, resisting the urge to kick in Amberley’s slobbering face.

“I’ve been _grazed_ ,” Sherlock corrects, getting to his feet as Lestrade snaps his handcuffs on the crying Amberley. “No need to be dramatic.”

“Dramatic!” John shouts. He can barely look at him, he’s so livid. There’s a bleeding gash on his arm, similar to the knife wound that ruined John’s coat a few weeks ago. “You fucking idiot!”

“Alright, boys!” Lestrade yells as more officers arrive on scene. “Donovan, can you get a medic up here, please?”

“I don’t need a medic,” Sherlock complains, pale with shock. “Don’t you want to see the bodies?”

 

 

Once they’ve given their statements and a medic has cleaned and patched up Sherlock’s arm, they’re free to go. The cab ride home is silent, John fuming and Sherlock sulking. By the time they return to the flat, Sherlock looks indignant at the silent treatment.

“I don’t see why you’re mad at me,” he complains. “It’s not like I just saved your life or anything.”

“It didn’t need saving!” John explodes. “I can move faster than you – I could have dodged out of the way. A bullet wouldn’t even have hurt me long-term! Instead you decided to be the hero and could have gotten yourself killed!”

“I’m sorry my first instinct isn’t to just stand by and let you get shot!” Sherlock shouts back, holding his arm stiffly.

“I’m not even fucking human! How could you forget that? You’re practically terrified of me, but step in the way of a bullet –” Sherlock is pale and John is not helping. With a curse he shuts himself up. He needs to leave, but the thought of going for a walk and braving the sounds and scents of London makes him nauseated. “There’s ibuprofen over the sink,” he mutters, heading for the stairs to his room. “I’ll be down in a bit.”

 

 

Sherlock’s arm is on fire, but he doesn’t bother taking the ibuprofen – such a weak painkiller has little effect on him. He orders takeout for dinner, then tries to organize the facts of the case in his mind. It’s no use – he’s completely distracted. When the food arrives, he chats with Mrs. Hudson for ten minutes to stall before heading back upstairs. John is waiting for him on the couch.

“You scared me,” is all he says, staring at his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

Sherlock places the bag on the coffee table and sits next to him. “I’m not terrified of you.”

John snorts in disbelief. He flicks on the telly and starts pulling out the food containers, a clear dismissal.

 

 

Sherlock struggles to sleep that night, his arm stinging whenever he moves. He manages to doze off with dawn a couple hours away and sleeps in most of the morning. When he wakes, John is gone, his side of the bed cold. He shuffles into the kitchen in his pajamas feeling like death, his head stuffy and his arm aching, and collapses into the chair across from John. John lowers his newspaper and gets Sherlock a cup of coffee and two ibuprofen, pressing a kiss to his curls.

“How are you feeling?”

Sherlock grunts, thinking that illustrates the situation eloquently. He swallows the pills, hoping for some small relief, and takes a sip of coffee, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“I want to check your arm once you’ve woken up a bit.”

“Fine.”

“Also, I have an experiment I would like us to conduct.”

Sherlock raises his head in interest, looking at John’s back as he spreads jam on toast. “What kind of experiment?”

The toast is placed in front of Sherlock. “Eat that and I’ll tell you.”

 

 

John cleans and rebandages Sherlock’s arm, ignoring Sherlock’s grumbling. The wound really is just a graze, but it could have been so much worse. He needs to get it through Sherlock’s head that he doesn’t need protecting. John should be the one to push Sherlock out of harm’s way, not the other way around.

“Go get your silver knife,” John orders, pushing Sherlock in the direction of the bedroom. Sherlock gives him a wary look but obeys, and John sets to cleaning the kitchen table. The chemistry set is put away for once, so it’s only a few minutes’ work to disinfect the table and lay down a plastic cover.

Silver knife in hand, Sherlock watches John with apprehension. “I don’t think I like this experiment.”

“Aren’t you curious,” John asks, retrieving his medical bag, “what my body is capable of? I am. I want to know what my limits are, what I can expect.” He pulls out his case of scalpels. “I think seeing it will help you understand that I’m not as delicate as I used to be.” Supplies ready, John washes his hands and sits at the table, arms exposed by his t-shirt.

Sherlock washes his hands and sits next to him, a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity on his face. “I never thought you were delicate.”

“It’s for science,” John teases and picks up a scalpel. “Look.” He makes a small cut in his right forearm, just deep enough to bleed and with barely a sting of pain. As they watch, the skin knits itself back together, the wound completely closed in seconds.

“Incredible,” Sherlock breathes, brushing at the thin line of blood with his thumb. Despite himself, Sherlock’s eyes are bright with interest, and John smiles.

John makes several cuts of varying lengths and depths, grimacing a bit at the last one. The deeper the wound, the more time it takes to heal, but the location does not seem to matter. “Let’s try the silver now.”

Sherlock picks up the silver knife. “Let me know if it’s too painful.” His cool fingers steady John’s arm as he presses the flat of the blade against John’s skin.

It starts as an itch but quickly grows to a burn and John flinches involuntarily. Immediately, Sherlock pulls away, the both of them watching as the red and welting skin slowly heals. The first cut Sherlock makes burns like acid, and John hisses as blood wells up. It’s a shallow cut, but it does not heal immediately. It stings and lingers for several minutes before finally closing.

“So, I can heal from silver, too,” John mutters. “Good to know.”

“It just takes longer. And silver to the heart is fatal,” Sherlock reminds him.

“Good thing you know how to stab someone in the heart now.” He says it lightly, but Sherlock still blanches and pulls away. John grips his hand. “I would die for you, Sherlock. Even if it’s by your hand. Do whatever it takes to protect yourself.”

Sherlock shoves away from the table. “I’m not having this conversation.”

“Yes, we are. Our lives are dangerous, now more so than ever. If the wolf ever hurt you –”

“John,” Sherlock snaps, an edge of panic to the order.

John backs off. “I just want to know you can defend yourself.”

“Stop worrying,” Sherlock mutters, retreating to the sink to clean the knife.

They tidy up without another word.


	4. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their third full moon, Lestrade texts Sherlock just after midnight. The werewolf is making an unholy racket in the cell, putting Sherlock’s strained nerves on edge. He barely hesitates after reading Lestrade’s text – he’s stalking out of the cottage and through the trees before he can change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't already obvious, I know next to nothing of London geography. The settings are entirely made up.
> 
> Heads up for angst.

Their third full moon, Lestrade texts Sherlock just after midnight. The werewolf is making an unholy racket in the cell, putting Sherlock’s strained nerves on edge. His brain is twisting around itself, his skin buzzing unpleasantly, his teeth aching with each vibration of his tympanic membrane. When he feels like this, the best cure is John’s fingers in his hair or John’s cock in his arse. God, he wants John back.

He barely hesitates after reading Lestrade’s text – he’s stalking out of the cottage and through the trees before he can change his mind. He jumps into the car and reaches the crime scene in just over an hour.

“What the hell took you so long?” Lestrade asks as Sherlock strides up to him. “And whose car is that?”

“Where’s the body, I need to see it.”

The case is not without points of interest, but is ultimately disappointing – a crime of passion disguised as a satanic ritual. They find the culprit hiding out at a friend’s house and the arrest is conducted without resistance.

“Christ,” Lestrade yawns, shading his eyes from the early-morning sun. “Haven’t pulled an all-nighter like this in ages.”

With a pang of dread, Sherlock pulls out his mobile to check the time and lets out a curse. He’s running for the rental car without another thought, ignoring Lestrade’s confused shouting.

It takes another hour to get back to the cottage, and Sherlock is sweating from the jog through the woods by the time he unlocks the door. He pauses in front of the door to the cellar, trying to calm himself and listening – he hears nothing. With a sigh, he unlocks the door and makes his way down the steps, grimacing as John, naked and chained, comes into view. He’s leaning against the wall, unable to cross his arms due to the shackles, with a stony expression on his face. It does little to hide the fury and hurt in his eyes.

“John,” Sherlock begins, unlocking the cell door. “I –”

“Yeah, don’t really wanna hear it,” John says, breathing hard. “It’s pretty clear what happened.”

Sherlock steps into the cell, but John continues to lean against the wall, his body language uninviting. “Lestrade texted, there was a case –”

“Of course there was! It’s always a bloody case and you drop everything else. I get it, I’ve always known where your priorities lie, but I really thought –”

His chest hurts. “There was a dead woman, John!”

“All you had to do was text Mycroft or Mina. You could have hidden the keys somewhere – either one of them could have come and let me out.” He pushes off the wall, stalking towards him. He’s stopped short by the chains pinning him to the wall, like a dog caught by its leash. “I respected your neurotic need for control and secrecy, I didn’t give anyone else a key, didn’t tell your brother about this place, though I’m sure he knows about it.” He jerks against the chains, teeth bared. The keys rattle in Sherlock’s shaking hand. “I put myself in your hands and you can’t even commit to me for one night!”

“I am committed! I just –”

“I’ve never asked you to ignore a case for me,” he continues, voice rough, “but if you could at least spare a _thought_ for me –”

“You’re in nearly every thought I have,” Sherlock insists.

“Then why did you leave?” John shouts, a flash of red in his eyes. Sherlock freezes, breath caught in his throat and John lets out a bitter laugh. “Is it because you’re terrified of me? Don’t lie, I know you are – I can smell it. I’m terrified of myself.”

“Stop,” Sherlock rasps, disgusted with himself. He forces himself forward, grabbing John’s arm and unlocking the metal cuff. The surface is scratched and gouged from sharp teeth. “Shut up.”

John breathes hard but allows Sherlock to set him free. When he’s done, Sherlock steps back and looks away, staring at the claw marks on the wall over John’s shoulder.

“The wolf reminds me of how close I came to losing you,” Sherlock admits reluctantly. “I hate seeing what you’ve become.”

With a snort, John skirts around him and out of the cell, bare feet slapping against concrete. “Great. You hate what I am. Not like I can help it.”

Turning on the spot, Sherlock watches John dress through the cell bars. “It’s my fault you’re like this.”

Shaking his head, John does up his trousers. “Not what I meant.” John finishes dressing while Sherlock stands pinned to the spot. “You planning on coming out at some point?”

Slowly, Sherlock follows John up the stairs into the bright cottage, sunlight streaming through the windows. “I’m sorry,” he tries. “For losing track of time.”

John turns, exhaustion on his face, but too antsy to sit down. “Mycroft said before that the wolf is made of the darkest parts of me.” He licks his lips in discomfort and crosses his arms, looking away. “There’s a lot of dark shit in my head.”

Sherlock looks at his hunched shoulders and clenched jaw, reading a confusing mishmash of defiance and guilt. Since the moment Sherlock met John, he knew there was a dark edge to the ex-military man’s personality, an edge that he appreciated. It meshed well with Sherlock’s work, angled perfectly to sharpen the knife of his focus and wedge into the cracks of his defences. That edge had never been a problem before. “You might not blame me, but the wolf certainly does,” Sherlock mutters, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides.

John scrubs his face with his hands and sighs in frustration. “It’s not your fault, Sherlock. If it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t need to stay here overnight with me. You just need to let me out in the morning. Like a dog.” With a snort, he turns for the door. “Come on, let’s go. I’m starving.”

 

 

They spend the next month hesitant with each other. Sherlock’s not sure what to do with the information John has given him, but they somehow feel more disconnected now than before. He still feels guilty, but with John’s insistence that it’s not Sherlock’s fault, they seem to be at an impasse. The frequency with which John isolates himself in his room increases to an average of twice a week, and Sherlock finds himself hesitating at the foot of the stairs more often than not.

They don’t argue, but their conversations feel stilted. At night, when neither of them can sleep, one of them will reach out to the other and their bodies will press together, imprinting their love and uncertainties into each other through fingertips and lips and tongues. The number of drafts in Sherlock’s email increases.

Sherlock orders takeout one day, a few days before the full moon, when John has been ensconced in his room for hours, hoping to coax him down with the smell of food. When the delivery boy knocks on the door, Sherlock grabs the first wallet he sees – John’s, sitting on the desk – without a second thought. He opens the front door and gives the teen a disinterested glance. “How much?”

The kid gives him the total and Sherlock opens the wallet and freezes, eyes landing on the small pill case tucked in with the coins. He pulls it out and opens it, feeling his heart pound in his chest as he takes in the single, innocuous-looking pill.

“Sir?”

Shoving the pill in his pocket, he replaces the case, trades a handful of cash for the paper bag, and slams the door shut. He takes the stairs to the flat two at a time, dumping the food on the table before setting up his chemistry set. He grinds the pill into a fine powder and is finished his experiment before the food has gone cold, his suspicions confirmed.

He has never felt this combination of emotions before – doesn’t know how to process it, his mind a numb blankness of horror. With careful movements, he cleans and puts away his beakers and chemicals. He flushes the remnants of the pill. He puts John’s wallet back exactly where he found it. He finds his own wallet in the bedroom and leaves the flat.

His route takes twice as long as usual, a circuitous path that avoids the CCTV cameras. Something of his mental state must show on his face, because people dodge out of his way as he strides along the pavement. He doesn’t know with whom he is angrier: himself, for missing the signs; Mycroft ( _of course_ it was Mycroft), for planting the idea in John’s head; or John, for going along with it.

He sits on a park bench and smokes a third a pack of cigarettes before John texts him, asking where he is and why he didn’t put the food in the fridge. Typical, mundane. His tongue feels numb and nicotine has his blood buzzing in his veins. There’s no chance that he can hide his smoking from John, so he doesn’t bother. He leaves the rest of the cigarettes on the bench and walks home.

John’s nostrils flare the moment he steps into the flat. “Were you smoking?” he asks, obviously already aware of the answer. Sherlock doesn’t respond, filling a glass of water to rinse the taste from his mouth. “What’s wrong?”

He drinks his water before responding, “Everything.” He leaves the used glass in the sink and retreats to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. See how John likes it.

“Sherlock?”   

Sherlock strips out of his clothes, puts on his dressing gown.

“Sherlock,” John says through the door. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Lying on the bed, Sherlock presses his palms together and brings his trembling fingertips to his lips. “Presumptuous of you to assume you can help.”

There’s silence for a moment before John stomps away.

He doesn’t know if he should tell John what he found, if that would just prompt John to replace the pill. He doesn’t know how to tell John that without him, he doesn’t know if he could survive. He’s tempted to call his brother and scream at him.

On the bedside table, Sherlock’s phone vibrates. He snatches it immediately, eyes widening as he reads Lestrade’s text. A slow smile stretches his lips, his glitching brain rebooting itself. This is exactly what he needs. Response text sent, he’s up and redressed, in clothes that don’t smell of smoke, in seconds, striding out of the bedroom.

Sat in his chair, John puts down his novel and looks up in surprise. “You ready to – oh.” He scans Sherlock’s face and stands. “Case?”

“Suspected serial killer,” Sherlock says with relish, grabbing his coat. It’s early summer, but evening is encroaching and nights are still cool.

“Want me to come?” John asks, voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Always.” It’s a reflex answer, and yet Sherlock finds it to be true. Despite the anger and betrayal, he wants John at his side.

With a smile, John grabs his coat, stuffs his wallet – which Sherlock does not stare at – and mobile in his pockets, and they’re on their way.

 

 

The case is a nine, nearly a ten, according to Sherlock.

The killer has a penchant for butcher knifes and a strong stomach. He is meticulous, ritualistic, cruel, highly intelligent, and very keen to keep two steps ahead of the police.

After studying the scene of the latest and third victim, who bears a striking resemblance to the previous two young, dark haired, petite women, John can’t seem to get the smell of blood out of his nose. He suspects neither of them will be getting much sleep until the case is solved.

After his odd behaviour earlier, Sherlock seems back to his usual obsessive, ruthless, consulting detective self. He’s equal parts dazzling and terrifying, and John can do nothing but follow in his turbulent wake, giving his input when he can. Sherlock is gorgeous like this, almost untouchably so, except for the way his eyes seek out John’s when he makes a deduction, and the way his hands seek out John’s body when they stand close.

By the second day, one more night before the full moon, John struggles to hold the wolf in check. Sherlock is at his sharpest, his intellect a laser that burns with his focus, until all he can see are the facts of the case. His seeking eyes and hands no longer gravitate towards John, all his attention drawn to the attractive force of the mystery. He hasn’t eaten in twelve hours and hasn’t slept in over twenty-four, deaf to John’s protests. He’s a grown man, John reminds himself, capable of taking care of himself – except he’s not. He regularly neglects his health. John’s been trying to train the man to defend himself, but how can someone who forgets to eat and sleep be expected to take care of their own safety?

Then, that night, a fourth woman is kidnapped.

When Sherlock’s pallor reaches anaemic levels and his pacing borders on manic, John calls in the reinforcements.

“He takes them somewhere abandoned, the location doesn’t matter, but the time does,” Sherlock is muttering, hands flicking the air by his head. “He’s meticulous, savours each cut, thought goes into each one. But his _shoes_.”

“Sherlock, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says gently. “Won’t you sit down for a bit and have a cuppa with me?”

Leaning against the kitchen table, John watches Sherlock spare her a single disdainful glance. “No time.”

Mrs. Hudson frowns and crosses her arms. “Young man, you have to stop this. You’ll get nowhere by running yourself down and wearing a hole in the carpet.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock hisses, flapping a hand as if swatting away a fly.

“It’s not good for your health, you know,” she insists. She reaches out and lays a hand on his arm. “You really must stop.”

Sherlock comes to a standstill, looming over her.

Alarmed, John pushes off the table. There’s something he doesn’t like in Sherlock’s expression. Sherlock’s eyes dart to him before jerking back to Mrs. Hudson. When he opens his mouth, his voice flows like honey and slices like a knife.

“I realize it must be difficult to be a lonely old widow who can’t even hold the attention of a café owner, but do you think you could kindly take your insipid nattering and _piss off_?”

“Sherlock!” John barks at the same time that Mrs. Hudson’s palm makes sharp contact with his cheek. Without another word, she turns and leaves the flat, throwing John a sympathetic glance as she does.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” John demands, planting himself in front of Sherlock, who rubs angrily at his reddening cheek.

“Oh, so now you say something!”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been horrendously rude to several people over the last two months and you’ve done nothing,” Sherlock snaps. “Why?”

“I – what?”

Sherlock ruffles an impatient hand through his hair, eyes red with lack of sleep. “You used to always correct me when I blundered socially. You would…ease the way, so to speak. Why have you stopped? Until I insulted Mrs. Hudson that is.”

This direction of conversation comes as a complete shock to John, who didn’t think Sherlock even noticed that John has stopped rebuking him for being rude. “I thought you hated – it’s not my place to tell you what to do,” he says, baffled.

“You used to try to ‘keep me in line’, even when I lost patience or didn’t see the point.”

John clenches his jaw and looks away.

“What changed, hm?” He advances on John now, using his height to intimidate. It’s a familiar tactic, the way he takes out his frustration with the case on John. The wolf growls threateningly. “What changed, John?”

“I did!” John explodes, stepping back from Sherlock’s aggressive pose rather than shoving him. “Why should I tell you not to be a prat just to make myself feel morally superior? It’s not like I’m any better – I know I can be a right prick, and becoming a werewolf, having all that internal anger and insecurity and cruelty shoved in my face by the wolf…” He’s panting, the dark shadow in the back of his head snarling, smothering his thoughts. “It’s made me realize that I’m not the good guy I’ve always thought of myself as.”

Sherlock stares at him, brow furrowed in confusion – a rare sight, that. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known,” he states, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Those words are so dear John wants to cry, but settles for a bitter laugh. He has managed to deceive the great Sherlock Holmes. “You’ve said you can practically read my mind, but if you really know the thoughts I have… Hell, maybe you do, and that’s why you’re so scared of me.”

“I’m not –”

“I used to tell you off for hoping for a murder just so you’d have a case – now I find myself hoping for the same thing, hoping that one of us might even get into a dangerous situation, just so that I’ll have an excuse to hunt down and hurt the criminal.”

“That’s the wolf talking –”

“No, it’s not! Don’t you get it?” John snaps, heart trying to beat through his ribs. “The wolf _is me_. We’re the same! It’s always been a part of me, I just can’t hide it anymore! Not even from myself.”

Sherlock blinks and shakes his head, reaching out for him. John nearly stumbles back to get away. He doesn’t know what the wolf will do if Sherlock touches him.

“I have these terrible thoughts,” John rasps, throat stinging. He struggles to get out the words to make Sherlock understand. “But the wolf doesn’t put them there, it just brings them into focus. Did you know, sometimes, when you’re pissing me off or ignoring me or taking me for granted, I’ve imagined what it would be like if I cheated on you, to teach you a lesson, to see your reaction. To hurt you.”

It’s horrific, the way Sherlock pales, the way his eyes glass over and his mouth drops open. He doesn’t reach for John again.

“I love you,” John chokes out. “And the wolf has made me realize you don’t deserve this.” He nearly runs out of the flat to get away from Sherlock’s shocked face.

 

 

In the aftermath of John’s departure, Sherlock experiences of wave of dizziness so intense he’s forced to sit on the coffee table and place his head between his knees. He can’t remember when he’s last consumed anything other than coffee. He may have been throwing himself into this investigation with more vigour than is strictly healthy.

Mrs. Hudson was right – he’s not making any progress on the case the way he is. Not without stimulants stronger than caffeine and nicotine, which, while tempting, he can’t afford to take with the full moon less than twenty-four hours away. He’s not even in any shape to chase after John, who is no doubt making his way to a pub. Or perhaps he’s too upset even for that.

John’s words circle in his head accusingly, the wobble of his voice ringing in his ears. Of the two of them, John is the good one, the one who saves lives, the one who is nice to clients, the one who keeps Sherlock right. Sherlock has never – never used to doubt John on that front. But that edge that Sherlock always thought fit so well with his own sharp corners…it’s why John’s friends don’t really like him, why he’s never been able to keep a long term relationship, why his hand shakes when the world is too calm…

This is why he avoids sentiment! This is why he was reluctant to enter into this relationship with John in the first place – there’s a case and he can hardly think. His stomach hurts, his chest is tight. He should eat something but he has no appetite.

Admitting defeat, he showers and climbs into bed, hoping that John won’t come home utterly plastered.

 

 

When John returns to the flat midday the next day, Sherlock is out. He’s grateful. He spent the night with Harry, and the only reason he didn’t try to drown himself in a bottle of whiskey was that Harry had beat him to it. Saved by his sister’s alcoholism.

With the full moon only hours away, John is exhausted and nearly vibrating out of his skin. Sherlock returns to the flat at some point in the afternoon, but by then, John is hiding in his room and losing his sense of time as the wolf solidifies. All he knows is the call of the moon.

It’s evening when Sherlock has a breakthrough. John can hear his gasp of epiphany and the sudden cessation of five-hundred-quid shoes slapping the floor. Seconds later Sherlock is bounding up the stairs.

John braces himself, fully expecting Sherlock to forget himself and burst into his room, unconcerned with the werewolf prepared to launch itself at any intruders. Fortunately, John does not have to resort to mauling him, as Sherlock comes to a standstill outside his door. By the shadows of his big feet, the man is poised with his nose nearly pressed to the door.

“John, I’ve got it, I know where he’s keeping her.” He can’t get the words out fast enough. “If I go now I can be back in time to drive us. I just need to make sure I’m right and I’ll call in Lestrade.”

Gritting his teeth, John gets off his bed, crosses the room and opens the door. Sherlock’s hair is a mess, his collar unbuttoned, eyes glinting with eagerness. He is utterly focused and looks ready to go on a suicide mission for the sake of this case. All their personal issues are secondary right now.

“Why can’t you just tell Lestrade where she is?”

“I don’t trust him not to bungle it. I’m also not one hundred percent sure I’m correct and don’t want to waste police time.”

John snorts. Sherlock only tacked on that second point to sound pretty. Regardless, John can see that Sherlock’s mind is made up. The only thing John can do is stop him from getting himself killed. “I’m coming with you.”

Calculating eyes flick over him. “You can handle it?”

John bristles, though it’s a fair question. The scent of his partner – if Sherlock will still allow John to call him that – should be comforting, but this close to John’s territory the wolf finds it unnerving. His patience is wire-thin and his separation from the wolf even thinner. But he is not about to let Sherlock ambush a serial killer on his own.

“I’m coming,” he reiterates forcefully, “with you.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at his tone, but his lips quirk. “Alright, off out, then.” He flies down the stairs, John careening after him, pausing only long enough to grab his wallet and gun, checking the magazine for silver bullets.

They throw themselves into their loaner car and John sends a private thought of thanks to Mycroft. They really ought to send the man a gift with all the money they’ve saved in cab fares.

The longer they drive the more concerned John becomes, eyeing the clock and the lowering sun.

“How far are we going?”

“Not much further,” Sherlock promises, but he accelerates anyway. “An hour from the cabin.”

They pull up to a dark, neglected building ten minutes later, on the edge of an old industrial park. The sun, low in the sky, flashes orange off of broken windows and crumbling concrete. There are no visible security cameras or pedestrians, but a black sedan is parked down the street, the only vehicle in this corner of the park.

“Is that…?” John wonders.

“The killer’s car,” Sherlock confirms, and they both get out of the rental. Sherlock brings his mobile to his ear as they approach the sedan, frowning as they peer through the dark tinted glass. He hangs up with a huff. “Call won’t go through,” he mutters.

“Greg?” John bends to check the back seat of the car. “There’s no one in here.”

“I’ll try texting him,” Sherlock says, turning, hunched over his mobile, and striding towards the building. “Come on, if he’s got her in there, there’s no time to waste.”

They enter the building through the previously kicked-open side service door, John in front of Sherlock with his gun drawn. The place reeks of disinfectant and death, rusty bars with hooks running the length of the ceiling.

“Old slaughterhouse,” Sherlock breathes against his ear, nudging John further into the room.

John is repulsed, but the wolf is intrigued, perking its ears curiously. They split up, searching the place, checking every nook and cranny for evidence of the kidnapped woman. As time ticks forward, John becomes more anxious, the moon rising in his blood. He’s about to recommend they give up the search when, near the back of the building, John’s nostrils flare, pulling him towards an inactive industrial freezer.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he hisses, tiptoeing closer.

Sherlock reaches his side the same moment John pulls open the freezer door, a trail of blood smearing in an arc across the floor. They’re too late, John can smell it. The woman is mutilated nearly beyond recognition, but he steps inside anyway, Sherlock on his heels.

Kneeling at the woman’s side, John presses his fingers against her neck automatically, feeling and hearing the lack of a pulse. Her body is still warm.

“She’s not been dead long,” John whispers and Sherlock scowls.

“We were _so close_ –”

There’s the sound of quiet footsteps outside and John springs up in alarm. He rushes for the door at the same moment it slams shut, clanging as the lock mechanism falls into place. “No!” he shouts into the sudden darkness, voice echoing against the metal walls. John slams his palms against the door, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps as the killer runs from the building. “Goddammit!”

Light blooms into existence and John turns, shielding his eyes from the torch on Sherlock’s mobile. “I’ve been an idiot,” Sherlock snarls, pushing himself to his feet and stepping over the corpse, coming over to observe the freezer door. “We knew he was still here.”

“You texted Greg, didn’t you?”

Nodding, Sherlock looks at his mobile screen and goes still, his face carefully blank.

“Sherlock?”

Wordlessly, Sherlock shows him the screen, and the text to Lestrade with a little ‘message not sent’ bubble beneath.

“Of bloody course,” John exclaims. “And you don’t have any signal in here?” He checks his own mobile. “Me neither.”

With his free hand, Sherlock begins inspecting the edges of the door, running his fingertips along the hinges. “This place is ancient; this door can’t be in perfect condition.”

“It’s good enough,” John mutters, wriggling and wrenching at the door handle that won’t give. “Move.” When Sherlock steps back, John rears up and slams his shoulder into the door, putting his entire weight behind it. He hisses in pain, but the door barely budges.

“Your shoulder,” Sherlock protests.

John takes a few steps back and collides with the door again, feeling the metal shudder under the force. “We need to get out of here,” he says, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He feels claustrophobic, the wolf pacing in his head. He winds up again, this time the wolf giving him a burst of strength that jars his shoulder terribly when he makes contact. “If I change in here with you, I’ll kill you.”

Swallowing hard, Sherlock backs off. John can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he kicks and rams into the door again and again, grunting and swearing and sweating. The hinges creak and the lock groans, but the door stays solidly shut. He’s starting to form a dent on the inside surface. He should be getting tired, but as the full moon gets closer, he finds himself increasingly energized, nearly manic. He can’t stop, can’t give up, or his frenzied nerves may turn him on Sherlock instead. There’s a red haze over his vision, desperation in the back of his throat, and he has no idea how long it takes for Sherlock’s shouting to reach his ears.

“John! John, just stop a moment!”

Shaking his head, John stands panting, staring a the heavily-dented door. He’s nearly got it. “What?”

“You’ve dislocated your shoulder,” Sherlock says lowly. “Just let me set it.”

His fingers do feel a bit numb, John realizes, his arm hanging oddly. “I got it.” With a grunt, he uses his good arm to bend the other at a ninety-degree angle, rotating it out and in slowly until the joint gives a quiet pop. He lets out a quiet hiss that Sherlock echoes. “How long do we have?”

“An hour,” Sherlock breathes.

With a sharp nod, he continues his efforts with increased vigour, encouraging the wolf to the front of his mind, using its strength against the slowly failing door. Light is peaking in through the warped edges, the loose hinges jangling as the door shudders. Fresh air drifting in makes the permeating, iron scent of the victim’s blood all the more obvious.

The next time he slams into the door, he stumbles as one of the hinges gives way, the door groaning loudly and bending. With renewed desperation, he shoves and pushes until there is a gap large enough to slip through, then forces his way out into the open. He’s nearly hyperventilating as Sherlock follows suit, pale and wide-eyed.

Sherlock takes the time to unlock and pull open the mangled door. They’re leaving bloody footprints on the floor.

Sherlock glances at his phone. “Forty-five minutes,” he says and they’re running, tearing through the building and out onto the empty street, jumping into the car. “Text Lestrade,” Sherlock orders as he starts the engine, pulling out his mobile and handing it to John. The wheels screech as his foot slams on the pedal.

“And tell him what?” John demands incredulously, taking the phone.

“That we found the fourth body. Abandoned slaughterhouse on Whitecrest. Killer escaped in black sedan. Lestrade knows the plates.”

“And the door?” John asks, struggling to keep his voice steady. He types out the terse messages with shaking hands. “Our footsteps were everywhere.”

“Tell him the truth. Killer tried to lock us in, but we got out. He’ll assume the door was already like that.”

“And why am I using your phone?”

“We’re going to tell him you’re unwell, your heart condition is acting up. Hence our speedy departure.”

“Fine,” John grunts, painstakingly typing out the message.

“Don’t forget my initials.”

Text done, John drops the mobile back into Sherlock’s coat pocket, then leans his head back against the headrest. Closing his eyes, he and the wolf breathe deeply as Sherlock speeds through the streets.

 

 

By the time they arrive, John is hunched in his seat, head bowed and hands gripping his hair. Sherlock slams to a stop at the edge of the trees, yanks out the key, and they launch themselves from the car, John practically falling out.

“Come on,” Sherlock barks, leading the way towards the trees. He’s walking so quickly John has to nearly jog to keep up, the last rays of sunlight now gone from the sky. The night has always been a delight to Sherlock, a haven of mystery and quiet, yet now he dreads it, would give anything for another hour of sunlight. Around them, the trees cast forbidding shadows.

It takes several moments for Sherlock to realize the crunching of leaves under John’s feet has ceased, and turns to find him frozen in place, face tense and lined with resignation.

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock snarls, striding back and grabbing John’s arm. “We don’t have time for this.”

Pulling away roughly, John shakes his head. “We’re not going to make it.”

Sherlock tries to grab his arm again but John dodges him. “If we run we can make it.”

“We’re still a mile out,” John argues, voice rough. His eyes are sad but his jaw is determined and it turns Sherlock’s stomach.

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock breathes, beyond fury. Moonlight is creeping in around them.

“I love you,” John says, and Sherlock could punch him.

Maintaining eye contact, John reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet. Sherlock can’t believe he’s seeing this. In that moment, he would swear he hates John Watson. He isn’t even smug when John looks down and, increasingly frantic, doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Dropping his wallet, John looks at Sherlock in horrified realization.

“What have you done?”

“Saved you from your stupidity,” Sherlock spits, hands shaking. “And myself from the sight of my partner committing suicide in front of me.”

Sherlock can barely see John’s face in the darkness, but he can hear the way his voice shakes. “I’m sorry.”

It takes all of Sherlock’s not inconsiderable control not to scream at him. At any rate, he doesn’t have time to respond before John’s hand is reaching for his waist.

His gun.

Sherlock tackles him to the ground. John is stronger, but Sherlock has surprise on his side. He has John pinned for a brief moment before he is roughly flipped onto his back. John grabs for his wrists and Sherlock fights back instinctively, adrenaline spiking as John’s body forces him into the dirt. He can’t allow John to get a hand free.

His arms are pulled above his head, John’s knees digging into his ribs as he tries to clamp both of Sherlock’s wrists in one hand. With a cry, Sherlock fights back with vicious desperation, squirming out of John’s grip and blocking John’s reaching arms. He manages to rip the gun from John’s waist himself and flings it away as if it burns. With a furious growl, a rough hand seizes him by the throat, twin spots of red flashing above him, and for the first time that night Sherlock feels genuine fear for his life. He freezes.

The next second the weight is off him, John crouched on the ground several feet away, fingernails digging into dirt. Sherlock scrambles for the gun and John’s eyes burn hellishly as he stares at Sherlock. “Shoot me,” he begs, voice shredded.

Still sprawled in the dirt, Sherlock shakes his head mutely, stuffing the gun in his pocket. Cold dread fills his stomach as he rummages his other pocket. The car key is missing.

“Sherlock, please!”

“No!”

With a shout, John bows his head, shoulders curled in agony. Jolting to his feet, Sherlock takes a step back. He can’t see the key on the ground, doesn’t have time to search for it. When John looks up again, his mouth has far too many teeth. When he speaks, his voice is barely human.

“ _Run_.”

Sherlock runs.

 


	5. Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is being hunted. He is the sheep in the Baskerville lab.

He is being hunted.

Sherlock crashes through the trees, an icy vise squeezing his chest. Twigs scratch at his face and roots grasp at his feet, the wary silence of the forest muffling his ears. His coat is weighing him down so he sheds it. The night is cool but he is damp with sweat. Already he can hear the cracking of branches behind him, the pounding of paws on dirt just audible above the frantic pounding of his heart. He is the sheep in the Baskerville lab.

_Midnight snack_.

A howl splits the night, the tone surging and vibrating through the air. Panic rips through him and he puts on another burst of speed. He can barely think, his entire consciousness focused on pushing his body forward.

_Stupid boy_ , Mycroft’s voice berates him from the depths of his mind palace.

The chances of them both leaving this forest alive are unthinkably slim. He tightens his grip on his knife and keeps running, his legs numb and his lungs on fire. He will only have one chance to do this.

The beast tires of chasing him just as the safehouse comes into view. The low warning snarl nearly drops Sherlock’s legs from under him. He throws himself to the side just as it leaps at him, then twists to face glinting fangs and calculating, glowing eyes, too close for comfort.

“John,” he gasps, rough tree bark biting into his back. “Please.”

The humanoid wolf watches him, saliva dripping from its gaping maw, a shadowy nightmare that blocks out the moonlight. There are no signs of recognition in its snarling face. It bends its knees in preparation to strike.

_Now, Sherlock_ , shouts Mycroft’s voice.

With a feral howl, Sherlock ignores every screaming instinct and lunges towards the monster as it reaches for him, gripping the dagger in both hands. They collide with jarring force and Sherlock is momentarily stunned, spittle spattering his face as the wolf snaps for his neck. The beast screeches and slashes at him as the blade sinks a couple inches into its chest. There is a sharp sting along Sherlock’s ribs and he jerks back with a shout, the wolf stumbling after him.

The air is crushed from his lungs as Sherlock hits the ground hard, the massive weight of the beast landing half on top of him. There is hot, humid breath on Sherlock’s ear. The wolf shifts and Sherlock’s heart stops.

_Don’t let it bite you._

With the last of his strength, Sherlock shoves it off of him with the hilt of the dagger, pushing the blade deeper into its chest. With a low, wheezing whine, the wolf collapses onto its side.   

For a moment he lies frozen, breathless, waiting for the dark heap of muscle and fur beside him to twitch to life and rip into him. He counts to ten in his head and pushes himself up onto trembling arms, twisting to take in the wolf. It lies motionless, its eyes open and black – the red light has been extinguished. Protruding from its chest is Sherlock’s knife, silver moonlight glinting off the hilt.

“John,” Sherlock tries to say, but only manages a croak. He sits and stares. Under the full moon’s light, he takes in the sandy fur, the lax claws, the gaping muzzle. “John.” He reaches out then. His hands are shaking. His fingers comb through the thick fur, feeling the relaxed muscle of the werewolf’s biceps. The skin is nearly hot to the touch. “John.” His voice shakes as badly as his hands. He feels out the immense, unmoving chest, fingertips skirting around the blade, tacky with blood.

The night is cold and Sherlock lost his coat. The safehouse is in view. Joints stiff, he stumbles to his feet, then cries out at the pain in his ribs. His shirt is slashed open and quickly becoming damp, blood leaking from three cuts along his right side. Arm tucked in against the wounds, he pushes the beast onto its back and tries to get a grip by its underarms. If he can drag it into the safehouse, he can chain it up and remove the knife. He tugs and pulls and drags, but it’s too heavy, a dead weight – Sherlock falls back to his knees and buries his face in the warm fur. It smells almost-familiar. “John, please.”

The night is cold and Sherlock lost his coat. He’s shivering. He can’t get to the safehouse. There’s really no choice. He lowers himself to the ground at the wolf’s side, burrowing into the warm fur. Curled in a ball on his uninjured side, he stares at the blank, black eyes. Reaching out, he gently lowers its delicate eyelids.

He doesn’t sleep. He can’t afford to miss the sunrise. Besides, his entire body aches and stings. After an hour, the lacerations in his ribs stop bleeding, though his entire shirt feels tacky. As the night progresses, the body under his arm gradually cools.

At the first hint of sunlight, Sherlock gets up with a grimace, trying not to stretch his ripped skin. Light-headed and legs numb, he staggers to the safehouse and retrieves the key hidden in the eavestrough. Once the door is flung open, he hurries back to the wolf’s side. Holding his breath, he grabs the hilt of the knife in both hands and tugs it free, nearly gags at the wet suction sound. He lets the bloody knife fall to the ground and takes several steps back, watching and ready to bolt if the beast attacks him again. He waits as the sky shifts from black to navy to orange.

There’s nothing.

Sherlock wraps one arm around his waist and grips his hair with his other hand. He waits, looking for something, any sign of life. In that moment, he would do anything to see those eyes flash open and red. “Fuck.” There’s nothing, no movement. “Please, John.” He feels ill. His vision blurs.

The body twitches. Eyes wide, Sherlock watches as the silent wolf shudders and jerks, limbs contorting and creaking as it returns to human form. Sherlock doesn’t wait for the transformation to complete before he’s on his knees at John’s side, hands on his face as the last of the fur melts away. His skin is cool to the touch, his eyes closed, his chest still.

“No, no, goddammit, John.” Sherlock feels at John’s neck with his blood-stained fingers, pulls open an eyelid, strokes his perfect chest. No trace of the stab wound remains.

He has no pulse.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock moans. “Don’t do this, Mycroft said…Mycroft said you could…”

Clasping his hands together, Sherlock begins chest compressions. He seals his lips to John’s but can’t get enough air for a proper exhale.

_Not again, please, not again._

He continues the compressions, wishing he could reach into John’s chest and squeeze his heart himself, will it to beat. He wishes desperately that he hadn’t dropped his coat with his mobile in the pocket.

He’s on his fourth set of compressions when he notices a flush in John’s cheeks. Under his hands, John’s skin feels warm. _Yes, please, please, wake up, please, John_.

There’s an explosion of movement. John’s back arches and his eyes fly open, lungs sucking in a huge, wrenching breath. Sherlock tumbles off him, pulling John into the recovery position as he gasps and coughs and breathes and breathes and breathes.

“Oh, God, John,” Sherlock chokes. He’s breathing as hard as John is, his ribs on fire. Then John looks up at him, blue eyes bleary, and croaks his name in amazement, and Sherlock is sobbing. He’s laughing and crying at once, doesn’t even try to restrain it, just pulls John up and crushes him to his chest. John shuffles into a more comfortable position and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back, letting Sherlock rock them both as he gasps and gets mucus and tears in John’s hair.

The sun is well in the sky by the time he calms, feeling John’s hands stroking his back and his voice murmuring soothingly into his skin. “We’re alright, we’re okay,” he’s saying. “I love you, we’re alright. Sherlock, love, can we get inside? God, you’re bleeding.”

With a hiccupping breath, Sherlock wipes at his eyes and face roughly, let’s John pull him up and towards the cabin. He nearly stumbles over the threshold, exhaustion and shock making him clumsy, and John kicks the door shut behind them with a bare foot before pushing Sherlock onto the bed. There is a vicious, persistent ache in Sherlock’s chest, a desperation that must be obvious on his face. He grips John’s forearms tightly, nails digging into warm skin, and pulls John onto the bed with him.

John resists. “I need to get the first-aid kit.”

“No,” Sherlock begs, pulling him even closer. “Not yet.”

John smothers his body with his own and Sherlock presses his face to John’s scarred shoulder, trying to silence the hitching breaths leaking out through his clenched teeth. Strong arms wrap around him, John’s lips pressing into his hair with his heart beating against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s strong back, squeezing hard enough to feel John’s bones against his.

“Sherlock, did I do this?” John breathes into his hair, fingers butterfly-light against the claw marks in his skin. “How bad is it?”

Shaking his head, Sherlock struggles to calm his traitorous body with its messy emotions.

“What happened?”

Now that John is alive and well in his arms, he remembers his earlier anger and grips John’s shoulders, shoving him back far enough that their eyes can meet. “Don’t you ever do something so inexcusably stupid again,” he says fiercely, soaking in every play of emotion on John’s face, the surprise, the understanding, the obstinacy. Sherlock pushes him back so he can sit up, still gripping him hard. “You _do not_ get to kill yourself to protect me.”

Lips pursed, John glares. “You would do the same for me.”

He can’t deny that, but he will not let the matter lie either. “You’ve been training me to defend myself – then let me defend myself! I’m more capable than you think.”

The stubbornness fades away as John’s eyes flick over him, his shoulders hunching. “The fact that you’re here, that we’re both here, proves that,” he allows, stroking a thumb over a tender spot on Sherlock’s temple. He pulls away. “I’m cleaning those cuts.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” John retrieves the first aid kit and washes his hands.

“It’s a scratch.”

“It’s more than a scratch and you know it.” John’s eyes burn into his. “Let me fix this.”

Falling silent, Sherlock submits to John’s care without further protest, removing his shirt and biting his lip at the sting of antiseptic.

“Some of this needs stitches.”

“You do it.”

Bowing his head, John nods. His hands are gentle and sure as he pulls Sherlock’s skin back together, the tugging sensation adding nausea to the pain. He’s glad for it. They’re both alive.

“It could have been so much worse,” John breathes, standing in front of him as he tapes gauze to Sherlock’s chest. “How did you…what…?”

Sherlock leans forward, pressing his lips to the unblemished skin of John’s chest. “I stabbed the wolf – you, in the heart.” A warm hand settles on the back of his head. John’s voice vibrates against Sherlock’s skin.

“But…a silver knife to the heart – not even the wolf can survive that.”

“I didn’t use the silver knife,” Sherlock murmurs, listening to the beat of the resilient muscle in John’s chest. “I used your army knife, the dagger you gave me. When the wolf lunged at me, I used its momentum to drive the blade in. It – it killed you, you were dead.” To his annoyance, his voice catches and he’s forced to stop, exhaling shakily. “I removed the blade at sunrise, to let the wolf heal itself, but you changed back and you still didn’t have a pulse…”

“It would take time for such a severe wound to heal. God, you brilliant idiot,” John breathes with a strained laugh. He reaches over to the bedside table to get a bottle of water, which he cracks open and passes to Sherlock.

“Oxymoron,” Sherlock grumbles, and takes a sip, which turns into several pulls as he realizes how parched he is. He passes the rest of the water to John to finish and lets his eyes drift closed. “I wasn’t sure it would work.”

John chucks the empty water bottle onto the floor. “But it did.” He pulls Sherlock against him again. “You saved my life.”

The reflexive denial dies on his tongue as he understands John’s meaning. He can imagine it only too easily. If Sherlock had failed and the wolf had killed him, he knows that John would likely be dead by now, dispatched either by his own hand or on Mycroft’s order. By saving his own life, he has saved John’s by extension.

John crawls back onto the bed and Sherlock lets John coddle him, nuzzles into his warm skin. There is quite a large expanse of skin at his disposal, since John is still naked, but he is suddenly exhausted. “I want to have sex with you, but I’m too tired.”

John laughs, sounding more like himself, and gently lowers them to lie down again. There’s a brief struggle as Sherlock decides to rid himself of all his clothes, and again with the sheets, but they manage to settle into a comfortable embrace in their little cocoon. With the sun rising, they drift into slumber.

 

 

Gentle, butterfly kisses ease Sherlock into wakefulness, John’s lips brushing across Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. They’re in the same position that they fell asleep in: John on his back and Sherlock draped half on top of him, his nose in John’s hair. He breathes deeply as John nuzzles into his neck, shifting his muscles to take stock of himself. His ribs ache dully but are easily ignored. The scent of his partner is sharp and intoxicating, something wild intertwined with his natural scent. John is hard against Sherlock’s hip, Sherlock equally so against John’s thigh. They wriggle a bit and their lips meet for a lazy kiss, exchanging loving greetings and wordless reassurances.

They ought to talk, to come to terms with what happened last night, but Sherlock is loathe to ruin this moment in their little pocket of warm sunshine, in their cottage in the middle of nowhere. John seems to be of a similar vein, saying nothing as their kisses grow more heated.

John tucks one hand into Sherlock’s tangled mess of curls and sweeps the other down Sherlock’s back, Sherlock’s skin singing with the contact. He hums into John’s mouth in approval, nipping his bottom lip when that strong, skilled hand begins massaging his arse and upper thigh. Eyes closed, they continue kissing, relearning each other by touch, as their lips grow swollen and sensitive and their cocks increasingly eager. When John’s hand begins moving with more intent, fingers sliding between his cheeks, Sherlock breaks away from the kiss and presses their foreheads together, panting with anticipation. He nudges his leg up encouragingly, flexing his thigh against John’s impressive erection. He loves how big John is, and with his fingertips teasing his hole, Sherlock feels himself throb against John’s hip.

John groans, his hands on Sherlock tightening. “Roll over,” he urges, shifting them to lie facing each other, Sherlock on his good side. He pulls Sherlock’s leg over his own and Sherlock delves back into a kiss, grunting in disapproval when John turns away. “Hold on,” John says, twisting to reach into the nightstand drawer. “Just let me – got it.” He turns back and kisses Sherlock enthusiastically, his now slicked fingers returning between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock is expecting those fingers to start working into him, but instead John places his fingertips at Sherlock’s coccyx, then slowly drags them down over his anus, along his perineum, and following the seam of his testicles as far as he can reach, leaving sensitive, tingling skin in his wake. Starbursts of pleasure explode behind his eyelids, his breaths accelerating. John’s hand takes a detour over Sherlock’s hip, then returns to its path up the underside of his twitching cock in a delicious, erotic journey. Reaching their destination, deft fingers delicately massage his foreskin before slipping over and around his slick cockhead, familiar callouses sending shivers of sharp pleasure up Sherlock’s spine. Staring at John’s hand on him, Sherlock is positively gasping, fighting the urge to thrust his hips and dislodge John’s fingers.

“God, look at you,” John marvels, trailing his fingertips up and down Sherlock’s blood-hot cock.

It’s heavenly and Sherlock reaches between them to return the favour, feeling out the enticing weight of John’s arousal with his hand. “As incredible as this feels,” Sherlock pants, “I’d appreciate you returning to your earlier efforts.”

“My earlier…? Ah,” he huffs, biting his lip when Sherlock twists his hand over the head of his cock. “Oh God, your hands.” He abandons Sherlock’s cock, makes use of the bottle of lube again, and begins preparing Sherlock with no further delay, briefly massaging the muscle before sinking a finger inside.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock hisses, losing his concentration as he adjusts and relaxes, inviting John into him. The angle’s a bit awkward, so Sherlock inches closer, hitching his leg onto John’s hip and bumping their erections together. The finger sinks deeper and Sherlock moans, pressing his lips to John’s forehead. A second and then a third finger gradually join the first, their thrusting, circling, and spreading driving Sherlock mad. He has John pulled tight against him, writhing as John fingers him and gasps encouragements, eyes dark and skin flushed with arousal. There’s a particularly exquisite twist inside him and Sherlock grips John’s upper arm, aching for more. “Oh God, now, John,”

John’s fingers slip free and Sherlock nearly whines. “Hold on, love,” John murmurs, getting up. “I’m just going behind you.” The bed shifts as he rearranges himself so he can lie along Sherlock’s back without Sherlock putting pressure on his stitches, then immediately wraps an arm around his waist to tuck them together. There’s a click from the lube bottle and Sherlock arches his back in preparation.

Eager breaths brush against Sherlock’s nape as John’s hot, slicked erection nudges at his hole, Sherlock gripping the sheets in anticipation. It takes long, sensuous moments of nudging and relaxing for John to push inside, his cock stretching Sherlock to his limit. “ _Oh_ , that feels good,” Sherlock encourages, wanting more, wanting all of him. He grips himself loosely, stroking occasionally to enhance the sensation of John sweetly splitting him open.

With a loud groan, John’s pelvis jerks to press flush to Sherlock’s bum, his hand gripping Sherlock’s hip with bruising force. He begins a subtle thrusting motion, just barely moving enough for Sherlock to feel him deep inside, Sherlock’s muscles rippling around him. Impatient, Sherlock sways his hips, taking control of the speed and depth, fucking himself on John’s thick cock.

“Fuck, that’s gorgeous,” John groans and Sherlock feels himself flush with pleasure at the praise, his back arching and hips twisting to exaggerate the motion, feeling John’s lustful eyes on him. The burn of his stiches forces him to slow his hips and John takes over again, lavishing kisses to Sherlock’s shoulders and neck as he thrusts into him, a steadying hand on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock twists his head and meets John’s lips in a messy kiss, moaning at the slide and drag of John inside him, filling him, rubbing against his prostate. He can’t hold back any longer – he begins stroking himself smoothly, eyes rolling back as John nips at his neck. The still-gentle motion of his hips is belied by the nails digging into Sherlock’s hip and the teeth at his nape.

There are still blood stains on Sherlock’s hands and dirt smudged in John’s skin, the wild scent of the full moon lingering between them. “Harder, John,” Sherlock pleads, knowing it’s what he needs, what they both need.

Behind him, inside him, John shudders, hands gripping him tightly before releasing. “You’re injured.”

“Don’t care,” he insists, a whine slipping out of him as John’s thick cock slides out and back it. “Oh, God.”

With a curse, John pulls out. “Hands and knees,” he orders into Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock scrambles to obey, throwing his head back as John mounts him and roughly pushes back into him with a hiss.

On all fours, Sherlock spreads his knees and keens as John thrusts, his hands firm on Sherlock’s hips and cock surging inside of him. “Yes, yes, oh fuck, _John_ ,” he babbles, collapsing to his elbows and bowing his head. He’s stretched wide, ribs stinging and nerves singing, prostate screaming in pleasure and his cock hard and dripping between his legs. It’s been ages since it’s been this mind-stoppingly good.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John snarls, and hunches over him, planting a hand on the mattress as his flexing abdominals make contact with Sherlock’s arched back, his other hand pulling Sherlock back into each thrust. His teeth graze Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock feels a thrill of excitement that sends him perilously close to the edge.

“So close,” he grinds out, forehead on his arms and eyes squeezed shut, his hips twitching unconsciously as his muscles clench and his cock throbs hard. “Oh God, touch me, John, touch me.”

The sound that rips from John’s throat is pure desire and alpha aggression, and he bites Sherlock’s shoulder to smother the sound at the same time that he wraps a hand around Sherlock’s cock.

For a second, Sherlock stops breathing, muscles snapping taught as every cell in his body goes ablaze. Like a dying star, pleasure explodes and consumes him from the inside out, a sob ripping from his throat as he jerks in John’s arms with the force of his orgasm. His seed spatters the sheets and his own chest, his cock twitching in John’s grip and muscles clenching relentlessly around John inside him. It’s a near unbearable ecstasy, his mind lighting up as his body comes undone, and then he sucks in a breath that brings the fading pleasure back to its peak. John groans his name when Sherlock shudders again, hips snapping roughly as he comes, body tense and hard against Sherlock’s. The feel of his partner’s orgasm, around and in him, is enough to pull a whimper out of Sherlock, aftershocks vibrating sweetly through his body. “Oh, _fuck_.”

They strain against each other for another moment before Sherlock’s muscles give out and he collapses onto the bed, John slipping out of him as he slumps half on top of him. “Goddamn,” he breathes, and Sherlock nods, swallowing with difficulty around his dry throat.

“One of our best, I’d say,” Sherlock pants and turns his head to peek at John, whose eyelids are low and lips soft with bliss. He looks gorgeous in the morning light, sunlight turning his hair and skin gold, his eyes shining vibrant hazel and blue. His pupils are wide because John is attracted to him and they’ve just had phenomenal sex.

“I love you,” Sherlock blurts. It should be awkward or embarrassing, but it’s not; it’s as easy as breathing, and not at all boring. He can’t remember if he has ever actually said the words aloud.

John’s eyes widen and then crinkle with his smile. They rearrange so they can face each other and John grasps Sherlock’s hand between their chests. “I love you, too.”

“I almost lost you last night,” Sherlock says quietly, using the intimacy of the moment to force the words out. He’s had all night to think. “It’s the second time I’ve almost lost you to the wolf.”

The smile fades and John looks down at their clasped hands.

“I’ve come to realize, that if I refuse to accept the wolf, I will lose you altogether. I think…part of the reason I’ve been afraid, is that I believed the reason you were so angry was because of me – that you were angry with me.”

“I’m not,” John insists, thumb sweeping over Sherlock’s knuckles. “You know I don’t blame you.”

“You’re angry with yourself.”

Worrying his bottom lip, John nods, still looking down. “I don’t…like what I think sometimes. I’m not the man you thought I was. I’m not the man _I_ thought I was. The wolf made me realize that.”

It has always seemed to come so easy to John, the whole ‘dealing with people’ thing. He is polite, friendly, trustworthy, _and_ Sherlock cured his limp – that seemed like enough to be going on with. It has never occurred to Sherlock that John might need emotional support and guidance as well. If it weren’t for the wolf, he doesn’t know if it _ever_ would have occurred to him. He doubts John would have even thought to ask, especially since he obviously feels so guilty.

“John.” Sherlock uses his free hand to urge John’s chin up, ducking his head to meet his partner’s damp gaze. “They’re just thoughts. Everyone has thoughts. I’ve imagined, on numerous occasions, killing each of my family and friends, just as an intellectual exercise. That doesn’t mean I plan on ever doing it.” John’s lip quirks but he still looks miserable, so Sherlock adds, “I’ve been blind to your needs for too long now. I am honoured to see the full you, the good and the not so good. As much as I hate to say it, we’re both only human.”

“I’m not –”

“Shut up. You’re more human now than ever. When I say I love you and I want you, I mean _all_ of you.”

John’s eyes overflow and he sniffles, a crooked smile struggling to take shape. “And you think you’re not romantic,” he says thickly. He laughs wetly and presses his face to Sherlock’s shoulder, his tears pooling hot on Sherlock’s skin.

With a deep breath, his own eyes clenched shut to stop their tearing, Sherlock presses his chin to John’s head, his free hand skimming up John’s back to clasp him firmly by the back of the neck. The wolf probably doesn’t like it, but John shudders and melts against him.

“I never wanted you to see that side of me,” John mumbles. “It’s why I spent so much time in my room, didn’t know how else to hide how much I was struggling.”

“You don’t need to hide,” Sherlock whispers.

With a final sniffle, John lifts his head for a kiss that is heartbreaking for its relief. God, Sherlock loves this man. He’s been too blind by his own guilt and insecurities to clearly see John’s.

“You are the best and bravest man I’ve ever known,” John says as they break apart, voice strong with his conviction.

Rather than insult John’s praise by arguing, Sherlock kisses him again. “You know,” he says, removing the heavy emotional weight on their shoulders before they can be crushed by it again, “we still have a serial killer to catch.”

“Christ.” John laughs, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. “Greg is going to be royally pissed.”

Pressing a final kiss to John’s scarred shoulder, Sherlock gets up and heads for the small shower. “Come on, we’d best go save Scotland Yard from their own ineptitude.”

 

 

Before they can leave, they have to search the forest for their things, John wearing a spare outfit and old trainers he stored at the cabin months ago. The bloody dagger still lies in the grass and when Sherlock hesitates, John picks it up, looking at the blood with interest.

“It is so weird that this was in my chest last night,” he mutters. He jogs back to the cottage to rinse off the blood then returns it to Sherlock. “I’d say this is rightfully yours now. It’ll make me feel better knowing you have it.”

Sherlock slips it back into his ankle sheath with an odd little twinge of pride. He’s not glad he had to use it, but he is glad that he was capable of using it. When Sherlock lowers his trouser leg and straightens, John is appraising him with an approval that lights a spark in Sherlock’s belly.  

John spots Sherlock’s belstaff as they trudge through the trees, following the snapped branches and claw gouges in bark, the remnants of the werewolf’s rampage. His mobile flickers to life with the last of its battery power, his screen full of missed calls and messages. With a sigh, he dials Lestrade and is treated to a loud scolding about going to crime scenes alone, abandoning them, telling him John is sick, and then going radio silent for hours. His hysterics are somewhat understandable, so Sherlock demurs, promises John is alright, and agrees to come in for statements.

“What of the killer?” he demands, ducking under a dangling tree branch and holding it aside for John.

“Dead,” Lestrade says flatly. “Father of the second victim saw him driving home by chance, followed him in his car and crashed into him at eighty kilometers an hour – confessed to everything after being taken to hospital.”

“Disappointing, but fine,” Sherlock says. “See you in an hour.” He hangs up.

“Stroke of luck for us, I suppose,” John comments, having overheard the conversation. “Might have been hard to explain the freezer door if he tried to insist it wasn’t damaged when he locked us in.”

“Good riddance,” Sherlock agrees. “I applaud the father’s spontaneity and gumption.”  

When they make it back to the car, John collects the shredded remains of his clothes – at least he managed to save his coat and shoes – while Sherlock searches for the car key. He eventually finds it in the grass under the car itself, thrown there during their struggle. The drive back into town is done in wordless companionship, John humming along to the radio and Sherlock throwing glances at him every so often, just happy for him to be there.

 

 

After grabbing some breakfast and giving their statements at the station, they come home to find Mycroft sitting in John’s chair. He stands when they come in, lips pinched as his eyes flick over them both, pausing on the slight distortion of bandages under Sherlock’s shirt. His eyes burn accusingly into John, lips going even more bloodless.

“How close was it?” he asks, quietly furious.

“How close was what?” Sherlock asks lightly, tucking his arms behind his back. “How close was John to killing himself thanks to your poison pill and silver bullets? How close was I to losing my partner?”

Mycroft turns his flinty gaze on Sherlock, hand tightening on the handle of his umbrella. “I was trying to protect you.”

“Getting rid of John does not protect me!” Beside him, John reaches out and lays a hand on his arm. Sherlock relaxes his arms and threads their fingers together.

“You almost died last night because of him,” Mycroft hisses, looking at their linked hands in distaste. “I was informed this morning of a minor calibration error in our tracking system only to discover that there was no error – you never quite made it to your _cottage_ , did you?” It’s more of an accusation than a question.

“You bugged our phones?” John asks in disbelief.

“What happened last night was caused by my own carelessness, not John’s,” Sherlock says, exasperated. “I don’t care for your idea of protection. You will cease tracking us via our mobiles, you will cease trying to remove John from my life, and you will _not_ hand out any more of your special pills like the sweets you eat by the bag.”

“Shouldn’t John get a say?” Mycroft gives an oily smile.

“I agree about the tracking – that’s not on,” John says. “As for the pill…” he looks up at Sherlock, searching for something in his expression. Sherlock hardly knows what is on his face at the moment. “We don’t need it,” John decides, giving Sherlock’s hand a squeeze.

“I don’t agree.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock snaps, out of patience for his interfering, overbearing brother. “If you ever wish for me to reach out to you for help in the future, you will do as we’ve requested.”

They glare at each other, then something in Mycroft’s face seems to break, there and gone too quickly to identify but obvious enough for Sherlock to feel a grain of doubt. “I could simply take John away,” he points out calmly, but Sherlock cannot detect any true intent.

“You really couldn’t,” Sherlock promises. _I’d kill you first_.

With an exasperated sigh, Mycroft stands. “Very well.” He nods with clear reluctance. “You leave me little choice.”

As he’s heading for the door, John stops him. “Mycroft, look,” he says. “I know you’re worried, but don’t be. Sherlock proved himself last night. He can defend himself.”

With a dark look at the both of them, Mycroft turns away. “He shouldn’t have to.”

 

 

They settle back into their lives. Sherlock buys Mrs. Hudson flowers every day for a week until she forgives him with a hug and a swat to the arm. There are cases, and shifts at the clinic, and experiments, and a few home-cooked meals. John experiments with increasing his tolerance for silver, a painful and still inconclusive process, and Sherlock finally gets his mobile fixed. There are nights spent apart when Sherlock plays his violin in frustration or mournful apology, but more nights that they spend together, sharing both verbal and physical intimacies. They talk more, or at least they both make an effort to. They discuss the option of John finding a therapist.

John puts up only a token protest. It’s a good idea, he allows, but who can he talk to when he’s carrying such a big secret?

“Perhaps,” Sherlock sighs, “I should reach out to Mycroft. Unfortunately, in this area, he has contacts we need. Besides, he’s been leaving me voicemails. If I don’t call him soon, he’ll just show up at the flat uninvited again.”

“He’s probably anxious about not being able to track your exact location twenty-four-seven,” John says with a laugh and kisses him for courage. “See, this is how I know you love me.” He strokes his thumb across a striking, blushing cheekbone. “You’ll brave your brother for me.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but accepts another kiss, humming in surprise when John straddles him on the couch. He fists John’s jumper in his hands, tilting his head back to better meet John’s lips, all thoughts of his brother flying from his mind. It’s hours later that he manages to pick up his phone to make the call.

 

 

Even with the therapy, Sherlock is careful to watch for hints of the wolf in John’s behaviour. He spots it late one evening after John comes home from a long shift, arguing with his sister on the phone as he walks through the door. He throws his mobile on the kitchen table after he hangs up, his hands quivering, and Sherlock can tell a departure to his upstairs bedroom is imminent.

Immediately, Sherlock abandons his experiment – it’s not time sensitive, while John is – and stands, walking to the desk to grab his wallet and keys. “Good, you’re home,” he greets his fuming werewolf. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Sherlock,” John growls, already halfway to the stairs. “I’m not really in the mood to –”

“Nonsense, you must be hungry, you’ve been out all day. I fancy some chips from that place down the street.” He ushers a tense John back out the door with a hand on his back, but gives him space once they’re on the pavement outside, walking side by side. He watches John in his peripheral vision as the shadows in his eyes slowly fade, their brisk pace helping expend his nervous energy. They order the chips and munch on them as they walk, licking salt and grease from their fingertips. “Want to talk about it?” he asks, when the chips are gone and he has thrown the crumpled newspaper in a rubbish bin.

“Not really,” John sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. They find an empty park bench and take a seat, watching the people walking by, each absorbed by their own world and worries. “It’s nothing really, just…some days, all the little irritants keep piling up on each other, each one like poking the wolf with a stick until it’s impossible to control, and all I hear in the back of my head is this snarling din.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, his tongue darting out as if to expel something rancid from his mouth. “I’m so afraid I’ll just snap so I…”

“Give yourself a time-out.”

John snorts and crosses his arms. “Pretty much.”

Sherlock nods, watching an older couple walking past. “Good idea in theory, but you’re a bit prone to repressing things. Sitting in your room ruminating probably isn’t the best option for you.”

“What are you, my therapist?” John mutters and then sighs. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, lips twitching. He reaches over to rest a hand on John’s knee, and smiles when John uncrosses his arms to link their fingers together. The hand-holding is new, but it’s growing on Sherlock. He can read John through his hands almost as well as through his facial expressions. “As much as I hate the tedious small talk that couples tend to engage in after work – the whole ‘how was your day’ nonsense – perhaps, when you’re feeling like this, you could rant to me to air your frustrations. I will likely tune you out, but the effect should still be cathartic. Or if you’re not in a particularly talkative mood, a boxing match could always be arranged. Or sex.”

John smiles. “What if you’re not around?”

“I’ve always found indoor target practice calming,” Sherlock offers with a shrug.

John laughs. “I am not adding to the bullet holes in the wall. Mrs. Hudson would kill me.”

“You could call your therapist – that is what she’s paid for, after all.”

John gives his hand a squeeze. “And if you’re on a case?”

“I’ll include you, of course. What better distraction than a good mystery to sink your teeth into?”

Bumping their shoulders together affectionately, John stands, pulling Sherlock up with him. “Come on, genius, you’ve successfully tamed the beast for one day. Let’s go home.”

 

 

Things are going well – they’re following a lead, the solution within sight – until John manages to get his head bashed in with a crowbar. He loses consciousness for about thirty seconds, during which time Sherlock convinces Lestrade not to call an ambulance. The following five minutes after John has gotten up are spent convincing him that, no, that cracking sound wasn’t John’s skull splitting open. There’s blood matted in John’s hair and trickling down his neck, which doesn’t help their cause as John insists that he’s fine, with nothing more than a cut and a mild concussion. Unavoidably, Lestrade sends them home after that, still looking dubious and bewildered.

“Sorry,” John sighs when they find a cab that will accept them, John leaning forward to avoid getting blood on the seats. “That was clumsy of me.”

“You’re lucky you’re so much more resilient now,” Sherlock grumbles, annoyed at being kicked off the case and with John for putting himself in danger again. “I swear you’ve gotten more careless, too.”

John grimaces in apology. “I’m fine.”

“You are _now_.”

Wriggling in his seat guiltily, John looks out his window. He glances back, opens his mouth, seems to change his mind, then turns away again.

“Oh, out with it.”

“I just…” John turns to him. “You could tell him you know.”

Sherlock huffs with frustration. “Tell who what?”

John glances at the cabby and lowers his voice. “You could tell Greg about me.”

Sherlock stares, blinks in shock. “What?”

With a shrug, John turns away again. “You’ve been great at supporting me lately, helping me find a therapist…I just think you could use someone to talk to, too.”

“I talk to you,” Sherlock says, bewildered.

“Other than me. You should have someone to rant at when I annoy you. Someone to give you a second opinion.”

“You’d want me to discuss our relationship with an outsider,” Sherlock surmises, aghast.

“Greg isn’t an outsider, he’s a friend.”

Sherlock thinks of his unsent emails to Ellen Frankland with their unanswered questions. The thought of having someone he could discuss with is appealing…but still. “That doesn’t seem wise.”

“It’s just an idea. Everyone needs to blow off some steam every now and then – you’ve been teaching me that. It can’t be easy living with a – living with someone like me.”

“Neither of us are exactly easy to live with,” Sherlock points out.

“True,” John allows with a crooked smile. “Still, you have my permission.”

“Alright,” Sherlock says slowly, then adds, “Thank you.”

 

 

A couple days before the next full moon, when John’s mood plummets and Sherlock stands helplessly on the other side of John’s closed bedroom door, he texts Lestrade. They meet in a public park, the same one Sherlock and John sat in after eating chips, and Sherlock tells him an abridged version of the truth. It goes about as well as expected, with an awful lot of disbelief and spluttering until Sherlock brings up a clip of John’s first transformation on his mobile.

“It’s photoshop, or editing, or something,” Lestrade insists, wide eyes fixed on the screen.

“It’s not,” Sherlock says calmly, then goes on to point out all the little clues in John’s behaviour at crime scenes that Lestrade has noticed and dismissed, until Lestrade is pale and quiet, no more denials on his lips.

“Christ, I knew he cracked his skull open that one time,” he mutters, elbows on his knees. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because John recommended I…” Sherlock hesitates, forces himself not to shift with his discomfort, “…have someone to talk to.”

Under his hands on his face, Lestrade peeks at him. “About what?”

“About our relationship.” Yes, that is the least embarrassing phrasing.

Lowering his hands, Lestrade turns to face him more fully, eyebrows raised. “You needed to tell me John is a werewolf in order to ask for relationship advice?”

“ _Shh_.” Sherlock glances around, but no one is close enough to overhear them. He feels incredibly awkward with the entire conversation, so his voice comes out a tad sharp when he explains, “The two topics are invariably intertwined.”

“Alright, alright. I…think I need time to process this.”

With a grimace, Sherlock looks away. How long will Lestrade need? Surely, with the proof on Sherlock’s mobile, it can’t take that much time for even an average mind like Lestrade’s to process and comprehend the new information.

Lestrade recently divorced his wife, but he still has more experience than Sherlock with the whole relationship thing. And unlike Lestrade’s ex-wife, John isn’t an idiot.

Noticing his expression, Lestrade sighs. “What, have you got a question you want to ask _now_?”

“The next full moon is in two nights –”

“Oh, my God, it is?”

“During this time of the month, John seems to lose track of his sense of self. He becomes irritable, he isolates himself…”

“Sounds like he’s PMS’ing,” Lestrade grumbles.

“Oh.” Sherlock sits back and considers. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t tell him I said that. Look, from what you just showed me, looks like John’s about to go through an unpleasant night soon, I’d say a little grumpiness is warranted – don’t take it personally.”

Clasping his hands in his lap, Sherlock looks down. “Is it…okay for him to be alone? Should I be doing something different?”

Lestrade is silent for a long moment, but when Sherlock glances at him he appears to be thinking, so Sherlock waits. It can be a slow process, he’s learned. “You should talk to John about it, but…sometimes when people are anxious or stressed they need some alone time. People cope in different ways.”

Sherlock nods with a frown, unsure if he feels reassured or not.

“I mean, this is all still pretty new right? It’s been what, six months? He’s probably still adjusting, maybe things will get easier with time. And, hell, get him some flowers or chocolates or ibuprofen or something – that’s what I always used to get my wife when she was on her period. Worked wonders, I swear.”

 

 

They get to the cabin with plenty of time to spare two nights later, and much better prepared. John is less tense than usual thanks to muscle relaxants sent from Mycroft, and they sit at the table together as the sun sets, Sherlock unpacking a bag of fine breads and thinly-sliced meats to snack on. Despite the shadow of the wolf dark in his eyes, John smiles at him with surprised appreciation as they dig in.

The usual apprehension Sherlock feels when they descend the stairs to the cellar is not nearly as strong as usual, this time. John allows Sherlock to undress him efficiently, gooseflesh breaking out as the cool air hits his skin, then kisses him before walking into the cell. They go through the ritual of chains and manacles, weighing John down with restraining steel.

“Thank you,” John murmurs when the last cuff locks closed.

“For what?” Sherlock whispers, tracing the skin of John’s wrist.

“Being here. You don’t have to watch. Go upstairs and get some sleep.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock presses a kiss to John’s forehead. “Maybe later. I think I’d like to stay for now.” There’s a wrinkle between John’s eyebrows when Sherlock pulls away, tension in his frame. “Soon?”

John nods, squeezing his eyes shut. Sherlock exits the cell and locks the door before settling on the settee to watch and wait. He still hates this part, hates that John has to go through torture every full moon, but this time, he brought his violin.

“Want me to play?” he asks, taking the instrument out of its case.

John nods again and drops to his knees with a groan, curling into himself as it starts. Sherlock stands and positions himself, then throws himself into the music. He starts slow and low and mournful, the strings empathizing with John’s pain, then he shifts his fingers to raise the pitch, echoing John’s cries. With his violin, he screams with John, a horrific duet that he hopes John understands, that he hopes provides some measure of comfort. His face is damp when both John and the violin fall silent, the low, heavy panting of the wolf filling in the pause.

It stares at him with its burning red eyes, but Sherlock does not back down this time. Lowering the violin, he steps up to the bars. He doesn’t try to speak. The creature takes a thudding step closer to him and is stopped by the chains, against which it struggles briefly, futilely. Its head tilts, perhaps curious why Sherlock isn’t running when his heart pounds and he trembles minutely. Perhaps it remembers what Sherlock is capable of and is acknowledging him as a worthy opponent.

This is John. This is a part of him they’ve both tried to ignore, but it’s time to stop running. It’s time to face the beast head-on.

When the wolf growls at him, Sherlock snarls back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this journey as much as I have! What are your thoughts and interpretations? I'd love to know! You can also find me on [Tumblr!](https://notesoflore.tumblr.com/)


End file.
